


We can lose and call it living

by ConcentratedMatter, hgb, kimabutch (CWoodP)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort Rollercoaster, Infection, Platonic Love, Queerplatonic Relationships, Team as Family, spoilers for RQG 157
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConcentratedMatter/pseuds/ConcentratedMatter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgb/pseuds/hgb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CWoodP/pseuds/kimabutch
Summary: Injured and surrounded by infected, Hamid makes a decision that reverberates through the entire party.
Relationships: Azu & Zolf Smith, Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Azu & Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Zolf Smith, The London and Other London Outstanding Mercenary Group | LOLOMG & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 96
Kudos: 97





	1. We can burn and be forgiven

**Author's Note:**

> What started as an idle idea in a group chat has turned, over the course of a month, into a 25k+ collaborative fic, and we’re really excited to share it with you. A few forward notes:
> 
> Firstly, we’ve posted the full, spoilerific content warnings and tags in the end notes; please do check them out if you’re concerned about anything triggering, and let us know if we missed anything.
> 
> Secondly, although this is a fic about the entire party (and Wilde), featuring all of their perspectives, Hamid is the central character. Additionally, although this fic is marked Gen, all three of us read Azu and Hamid’s relationship as queerplatonic: an intense, intimate, committed friendship. Readers are free to interpret the relationship as they’d like. 
> 
> Thirdly, this fic was initially conceived prior to the introduction of Hamid’s kobold followers. After some discussion, we decided not to explore that ongoing storyline, and instead keep this fic a canon-divergent story in which Skraak and the other kobolds never came to the inn but everything else still occurred as in canon, up to the end of RQG 157. Alternatively, the kobolds are there, they’re just having a well-deserved beach vacation. You decide.
> 
> Fourthly, the fic's title and all the chapter titles are from _Call It Dreaming_ by Iron & Wine. We also have a playlist that we put together while working on the fic; you can listen to it [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0t12bH7MM0Tv01LJmLLx9F?si=X81wQ1ixQTODhbQVkuKOYA)
> 
> Lastly, a big thank you to the Red String Brigade server, who put up with us hyping this fic for far too long. Love you guys. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy reading!  
> Babs, Charlie, & Heather

The heat hangs between the buildings like a stifling blanket, oppressive and low, making the abandoned town feel eerily quiet. The harsh sunlight reflects off the sandy streets, and Hamid lifts his arm to shield his eyes against the glare and dust. Scouting ahead, he searches for any sign of Curie’s contact, the supposed next step in their journey. 

“Hamid.” Although Azu’s voice is low and grim and she is far away, the crisp, clear arcane connection whispers her warning right into his ear. He looks back at her, standing with the others in a shadow the next block over, and follows her gaze to a half-closed shutter nearer to him. To the fingers curled around it. To the sickly blue underneath the fingernails.

His heart hammers in his chest as he stumbles backwards towards the group. A man emerges from a side alley, tattered clothes and blue crawling across his neck and arms. And then more follow, pushing into the streets from seemingly abandoned buildings, summoned as if by magic. _They never attack unless they have overwhelming odds_ , Barnes had said, and by the time he’s reached his friends, they’re everywhere, emerging from empty houses, all blue veins and blank stares.

His hands are already up, moving instinctually, arcane magic sparking from his fingertips. As the crowd draws nearer, he lets fly the first of his spells, and behind him hears the others engage in battle. With a bolt of terror, he realizes this means they are surrounded. He pushes the panic away, focusing on the threat in front of him, drawing strength from his companions at his back — Azu’s axe, above him, cleaving through her foes; Cel’s crossbow sizzling with lightning; Zolf’s steady voice alternating words of hope and healing with those bringing vengeance and destruction. 

He ignores the looks on the empty faces as he sends out a blistering arc of fire, cutting a path through the crowd. But the gap created by the flames soon fills again, replacements shuffling inwards from all directions, stretching beyond his sight, and he wonders how many there are still hidden among the buildings. As he gathers the energy for another spell, several individuals behind the first rows of villagers suddenly catch his attention. It's in the way they hold their distance, hands outstretched and in motion, muttering — _casters_ , aiming at his friends from afar, doubtlessly trying to subdue and capture them. 

He realizes the danger immediately, and as his friends grapple with the closest threats, he aims beyond the mob. Here, in the middle of battle, every last one of his senses narrows to the single-minded task of survival and his mind barely has time to process the fact that they are fighting the infected. Instead, heart racing, he pushes the horror away, calms his breathing and _focuses_. Desolation leaps from his fingers and rushes over the sea of empty faces. He watches with grim satisfaction as the resulting explosion hits its target perfectly, taking out two of the spellslingers. 

The corner of his lips still curled up in triumph, Hamid spots a ray of fire accelerating towards him out of the corner of his eye. _Not quick enough_. He spins and ducks, his knee scuffing against the ground as he steadies himself with both hands on the once dusty street, now muddy and sticky with the mixture of blood and dirt. The fire streaks past, engulfing one of the villagers lunging at his back, and the heat washes over him as he lifts an arm to protect his face. He lets out a shaky breath at the near-miss, but before he can stand, his eyes land on the legs of the two men in front of him. As his eyes flick up in panic, he sees both of them heaving up their weapons, ready to strike. He’s left himself completely open to their attacks. 

There is no time to call for help and instinct takes over as Hamid rolls without looking. Frantically tumbling past legs and limbs, his back prickles with tension, waiting for the moment a sword will bury itself between his shoulder blades — but no such moment comes, and in his desperate escape he manages to push through to an opening among the press of bodies.

The electrifying buzz of adrenaline pulses through his veins when he clambers to his feet, searching for his friends amid a wall of villagers advancing with blue, hollow eyes. He barely has a chance to scan the crowd before the throng of enemies is pressing in on him. _They’re gone. They’re gone and he’s alone_. He backs away until he hits the wall behind him, mind racing, instinctually reaching out again for his arcane connection with Azu — realizing that he must have dropped it in the panic. 

“Azu!” Hamid’s voice is clear, vibrating only slightly with the hint of fear as he shouts. “Zolf, I’m here, where are —” 

Before he can finish his thought, a tall human in ragged peasant’s clothing steps out of the horde and swipes at him. Hamid dodges sideways, slamming into the door of one of the abandoned buildings. His hands scrabble at the handle until he finds purchase and the door swings open from his panicked momentum. He nearly falls inside, scraping against the rough wooden floorboards, kicking up a cloud of dust which pricks his eyes. 

Suppressing a cough, he fumbles at the door for a terrifying moment before he manages to slam it closed. Turning, his eyes lock on a chair nearby and he grabs it, desperately shoving it under the handle. When he feels it firmly wedge, he clings to the edge of the seat, struggling to get his breathing under control, beating down the cold panic that is building up in his stomach. Muted through the wood, hands pound against the door, rattling the handle as infected try to force their way inside. 

He takes a moment to calm himself, backing up from the door. He needs to find another way out. The others — they need him. He needs them. His spells, they — they can clear the path. 

A hand shoots out of the shadows and grips his arm, fingernails digging sharply into the skin below his elbow. He jerks away, a scream ripping from his throat — he stumbles over his own feet and falls backwards to the floor. A woman looks down on him with an empty stare, blue veins crawling up her neck and across her cheeks, a sickly smile on her lips. 

Hamid looks down at his arm in terror, at the blood dripping from long scratch marks down to his wrist. Zolf’s warning runs through his mind; coming in contact with the blue-veined practically guarantees infection. The scratches are deep and burn up his arm, and his mind is already conjuring up images of the contaminated blood being pumped through his body. Soon, blue veins will be blossoming under his skin and the voice of the hivemind will whisper in his ear. 

He’ll become like them. 

Terrified and infuriated, he lets out a wordless cry and fire bursts from his fingertips. Flames lick up the outstretched hand of the woman in front of him, scorching her body as she drops to the floor, writhing. Hamid watches, numb, as the body falls still, blackened, an empty smile lingering on the woman’s face. 

He stares helplessly at the streaks of blood trickling down his left arm, dripping onto the floor. Is it too late? He shakes his head. He has to get up. He has to get up and help the others. His legs quiver like jelly, but something pulls him upright, and his feet begin moving. _Do a grief later_.

Behind Hamid, there’s a crash as part of the door breaks down and sunlight streams in through the cracks. Legs working on pure instinct, he scrambles to the next room. Afraid to look back, he flies up the stairs, tripping halfway and scrabbling up the remaining steps on all fours. By the time he’s reached the top, finding himself in a dusty bedroom, he hears another crash of the door. They’ll be in soon. 

Desperate to find the others, he runs towards an open window and leans out. His hands are slippery on the windowsill, leaving bloody prints. To his relief, he spots his friends still fighting, not too far away from the house yet surrounded by enemies on all sides. Over the sounds of battle, he can barely hear Azu’s shouts of panic between swings of her axe — she’s searching for him. Her pink breastplate is dented and her axe is covered in blood. Is she hurt? 

She needs to know he’s okay. He can’t let her be distracted because of him. He leans forward, as far out the window as his short legs will let him, and takes a deep breath. 

And then he stops himself. He looks down at his weeping arm. A floor below, he can hear the front door splinter open, and suddenly all possible futures flash across his mind like a danse macabre. 

_Separated from his friends, captured by the infected, joining their ranks with blue-veins crawling across his skin._

_Turned against those he loves and used as a weapon, a mockery of his smile playing about his lips as Cel looks at him in horror. “Little buddy?”_

_His hand raised against his will, broken screams trapped within his body as the hivemind overwhelms his senses and he flings death toward his friends._

_Azu crying out his name, fighting to protect whatever is left of him, unable to let go._

_Azu staring down a blaze of his fire, her tear-filled eyes unflinching as his flames reach her._

_Azu dying._

His hands tremble on the windowsill as he fights to keep his composure, icy panic running through his veins. His breath hitches. Even if the infected fail to capture him today, even if he is reunited with his friends, blue veins will still take over his body — which of his friends would be forced to kill him then? Zolf? He can see him making the hopeless choice, raising his glaive with a grim stare, choosing the mission above all else. 

And, _oh gods_ , what if Zolf failed? What if his friends’ love for him destroys them too, turning them into hollow shells of who they used to be? He can’t let that happen. 

His eyes travel down the other side of the street where a seemingly endless throng of villagers shuffle forward to replace any bodies that his friends strike down, stretching all the way to the main square. There are so many. No possibility of escape. 

Footsteps pound up the stairs behind him and he leans further out the window, judging the distance to the street. Even as they burst into the bedroom, he braces his hands against the window frame, climbs onto the sill. He thinks of Sasha, leaping from building to building with ease, never falling but flying. Never hesitating to protect them. Hamid smiles grimly.

He leaps.

* * *

The late afternoon sun casts shadows across the desk in Hamid’s old bedroom. It’s too small for him, a little awkward now. Like most things here. 

_Dear Zolf_ , Hamid writes, _I hope you’re doing well_. 

No, that’s stupid. Of course he’s not doing well. He fucking left because he wasn’t doing well. Hamid crumples up the paper and pulls out a new sheet. 

> _Dear Zolf,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than when you left. I do not know where you went after we parted in Prague, but can only trust that you were safe from the subsequent attacks on the city._

Is that too impersonal? Zolf would hate any formalities. Accuse him of being better than his novels, better than him. And they were friends, were they not? Yet… maybe too presumptuous to write a letter in such a familiar tone to a former employer. Hamid sighs, and presses on. 

> _So much has happened since you left that I barely know where to begin. You may have heard about the necromantic rituals attempted on Prague; we were responsible for stopping these, at the cost of several lives._

Hamid pauses, his heart sinking further. He crosses out the last phrase. He can do a second draft later. 

> _~~at the cost of several lives~~. Sir Bertrand died, as did my sister, Aziza, who was performing at the opera. Perhaps you read the news. ~~I unfortunately was unable to~~ We find ourselves in Cairo now, originally for the funeral, although other urgent matters have since revealed themselves._
> 
> _We secured healing for Sasha, who was ~~undead~~ sick. I say we, as Sasha and I have employed two new mercenaries, Grizzop and Azu, paladins of Artemis and Aphrodite respectively. ~~They do not replace you.~~ _
> 
> _I think I understand a little better now why you left. When you told us, I must shamefully confess I was angry. I did not fully understand your guilt, or the pressure you faced as a leader. I did not understand what it means to fail to protect those you love for whom you are responsible, or to think you are doing the right thing and then discover you are not._

He stares at the page, but all he can see is Grizzop’s face twisted into righteous fury at Hamid’s mistakes, or else Azu’s quiet disappointment. Worse yet was Sasha’s drunken resentment, her claims that he was working with Barrett. He wishes he’d been there for her, wishes he could have said or done anything more to help. He let them all down.

> _I have been told that all I can do is try my best, and Zolf, I am trying. I know you ~~were~~ are too. But there have been many moments in these past few days where I could’ve used your guidance and advice._
> 
> _Azu and Grizzop are different. They do not doubt their faith as you did, and have such strong conviction in whether what they are doing is right or wrong. Sometimes I am envious that I have no such gods or faith to guide me._

He bites his lower lip and redips the pen. As he places it on the page, he flounders at what to write next. He thinks back to his confession about what had happened at Cambridge, to the questions that have been spinning in his brain since then, why he’d mishandled his family the way he did.

Grizzop told him that wallowing in self pity wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and that... that was the thing, wasn’t it? His parents had made his mistakes disappear and he felt so guilty about it that he’d been ready to afford Saleh the same opportunity they’d given him. Why should he escape the consequences of his actions but refuse to allow his brother a similar chance to make things right? But guilt was really just self-pity in a more stylish jacket.

Grizzop had said the only thing that really mattered was that he genuinely tried, that he should focus on doing good instead of feeling sad for himself, to make up for his past mistakes. He just hopes he can. Hopes he’ll get the chance to do something useful with his life. 

The ink from his pen has seeped onto the page by the time he continues writing:

> _I’ve seen our newest ~~friend~~ colleague, Azu, give herself completely to our cause within minutes of meeting us, or else fight almost to death to allow Sasha’s recovery. I want so much to follow her example, to be brave enough to give anything for ~~my friends~~ our cause. I don’t know that I am as courageous as you or them, but I have to try. Even if it means _

Hamid sets down the pen and curses the words on the page. Saira’s voice echoes in his head — _this isn’t about you_. Zolf doesn’t want to read this. It’s his selfishness, the same thing Grizzop criticized.

His eyes prick with unshed tears when he crumples the page and grabs a new one.

Not good enough. 

* * *

Hamid lands lightly on the balls of his feet. The impact barely has time to reverberate through his bones before he’s tucking in one shoulder and tumbling forward in a smooth roll. Pushing himself up from his knees, shaken but unhurt, he can’t help but think that Sasha would be proud if she could see him now. He won’t be able to save the world either, but maybe he’ll be able to save a few people.

Infected villagers close in around him, cutting off all exits in coordinated, instantaneous movement. Pushing down instinctive panic, Hamid thinks back to Rome, to the unnatural peace he’d felt as he listened for the invisible monster above him. This chaos of bodies is nothing like that, and Hamid has no time to brace himself before he aims the fire right at his feet.

There’s something that feels so right about the magic that springs forth so easily from the well of power inside of him; the tingling of fire through his nerves, the thrill as flames erupt from his hands, the unasked-for satisfaction of the explosion, whether it’s on enemies or innocents or — or himself. White-hot, almost freezing pain seizes his entire body and he’s shaking, fighting to stay upright, and — laughing. As his vision clears, he sees the charred corpses of dozens of enemies around him. He stands, the glimmer of half-formed scales across the skin of his hands. The pain fades to the background as he’s drunk on the inevitability of it all. He laughs. At the destruction, at his own death, at the absurdity —

“Hamid!” Azu’s scream cuts through his thoughts. He whips around and sees her, still separated from him by scores of villagers. Tears streak across her dirtied, bloodied face, twisted in grief and panic. Her axe is frozen mid-swing as she stares at him, eyes wide with fear. She moves forward and only barely registers the attack launched at her from the side. She parries it in the last second, distracted as metal scrapes against metal, bellowing in frustration at the amount of people separating them. Behind her, Cel and Zolf glance over in shock as they continue fighting.

Hamid’s laughter dies with Azu’s scream. _She’s going to come after him_. He can see it in her eyes and on her face, but even if he hadn’t seen it, he would have known it as truth in the depths of his heart. And he can’t let her, no matter what they promised. As she fights off attack after attack, wading through infected, he points a shaking finger at her, arcane words whispered over cracked lips as he reforges the connection between their minds — everything he wishes he could say with a final hug they will never get to share.

“Azu?” he says, his voice small. He swallows, turns away and starts running, his voice growing more steady with each step he takes away from her. “Azu, please listen.” 

He’s vaguely aware of crowds of infected moving in on him, trying to close him off once again. He stumbles, his tattered jacket flapping in the wind as he picks up speed despite his burned legs screaming at him. “Azu, I’m so sorry, you can’t follow me. I’m — I’m already dead, I’m —” He dodges a sword, ducks underneath a grasping hand and lunges for an open patch of ground. Not yet, not yet. He needs to draw more of them close. 

“Hamid — Hamid, you can’t, you promised we’d stay —” Azu's voice shakes, but it sounds as clear in his ear as if she’s standing right behind him. He doesn’t have the time nor the strength to turn back, can’t bear to see her face. He’s not laughing now.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m... sorry — _please_ , Azu. I’m going to clear a path for you, you can all get out. Tell my family —” his voice hitches, thinking of his family’s faces. He never got to see Ismail or Saira or Mother again. To apologize for taking so long with Ishaq. To apologize for… everything. 

“Tell them I — I love them.”

“ _Fucking_ tell them yourself!” Azu screams. Hamid wants to answer, but he can feel the mass of bodies closing in again. It’s time already. 

It comes easier now. It hurts less, burned nerves stunned into silence by shock and adrenaline. He doesn’t have a chance to experience the agony or to see the bodies around him before he’s running again, no time to even feel surprised at his ability _to_ run. He can hear Azu screaming now, both in his ear and from far away — _gods_ , he hopes it’s from far away. 

He looks down at his shaking, blackened hands as he runs. How much power is still left in them? How many more until he’s gone? 

Until he’s safe? 

“You’re going to be okay, Azu,” he says over her screams. He’s not sure if it’s her or himself he’s reassuring. “Stay safe for me, please. I’ll be okay. I’m going to — Azu, I’m going to see Aziza again.” His lips twist into a smile at the thought, and he can taste the salty tears running down his face. “I’ve got to go, Azu. I… I love you.”

He runs. Hears Azu yelling at him. Cuts off the connection, feels her voice fall away. He can’t let her try to come after him, to convince him. He can’t let her hear him die. 

Rows of blank faces block his path and he finally stops running. He closes his eyes and hears them rush in towards him. They’re not supposed to be dumb, he thinks idly, and he turns his face towards the sky, feeling the last rays of sunlight on his skin. Are they descending upon him because they realize what he’s about to do? Do they want to stop him from annihilating a valuable asset this badly? 

It doesn’t matter. 

Everything slows — the sounds, the smells, the running feet of dozens of infected — but his heart still thrums a million times per minute, fitting a lifetime of heartbeats in a single moment. Despite it all, he feels exhilarated, has never truly felt this alive, has never let his magic run free and wild like this. He was born for this. 

His eyes snap open and he catches a glimpse of the stark blue sky above. He knows the gods are real, but he’s never been much of a follower. Now, though, he lets up one last prayer for Azu. For everyone. 

And then they are upon him. 


	2. Where we keep the light we’re given

Scorching sunlight pours in through the cracks of the cellar door in Rome, but down at the bottom of the basement it is gloomily dark and cold. Azu watches the dust spiral through the rays of light, numb hands clinging to Sasha’s unconscious form as she tries to provide her with the kind of protection and warmth that is so hard to find in Rome. 

The cold is biting, and it’s all she can do to not start shivering as she watches the dust flying up in the heat of the sun, and then slowly coiling down again in shadow — a perpetual dance of light and dark. She suppresses the urge to move into the light, knowing the heat would almost certainly be worse than the freezing shadow. But still she longs for it — has always longed for it, for the warmth of the light to buoy her up from the darkest of places. Aphrodite’s smile as She lifts her up. 

Yet here, the light is false. Permanently frozen into a searing, vile heat that distorts her connection with the goddess whose guidance she now so desperately desires. She blinks, her heart crying out, and gradually becomes aware of the shivering. Not from her. Not from Sasha. 

Azu tilts her head down, and across the other side of her she sees Hamid huddled into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his body in a trembling hug. The ache for her goddess’ guidance empties out of her heart as she instinctually reaches out, worriedly brushing Hamid’s messy hair from his ash-marked face. Did his spell wear off? Or is he more injured than she had thought?

Panicked, anxious eyes shoot up to hers and Hamid uncurls himself at her touch, wiping at his face, reflexively smoothing his ruined clothes. To her, the movement almost seems like a subconscious attempt to brush away a self-perceived moment of weakness. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, Azu. I didn’t mean to… to wake you?” His voice is high, quivering and full of apologies. She frowns, her hand resting on Hamid’s shoulder as he sits up, knees still pulled close to his chest. His face hidden in shadow as he looks away from her questioning eyes. 

“I wasn’t sleeping. But I thought you were — did the spell run out?” she asks, and impossibly, he shrinks in on himself even more at the words. Then, still avoiding her gaze, he leans forward and begins tucking in the blanket around Sasha where it has come loose in Azu’s lap, hands nervously busying themselves as he shakes his head. The tattered remains of his sleeves brush against Azu’s hand and she cannot help but take in how much of a mess he looks. 

“N-no. Not at all. I’m okay, Azu.” He flashes her a brief smile that does not quite reach his eyes before he looks down again at Sasha, worry filling his face. “I’m sorry about — about not being able to provide the same comfort to you or — or Sasha.” 

He bites his lip, stops fussing with the blanket as he leans back. For a brief moment it looks like he wants to brush away Sasha’s hair from her face, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he pulls his legs back up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, turning to rest his head on his knees while looking up at her.   
  
Azu is silent, studying him. Then she readjusts Sasha on her lap, freeing her right arm which she opens to Hamid, inviting. Hamid hesitates briefly, shooting her a questioning look, but her face contains only a gentle smile. Nothing of her own fears, nothing that would worsen his anxiety. He doesn’t need that now. She needs to be strong for all of them.

Hamid’s shoulders sag and he crawls into the space she made, curling against her side like a lost child. Soon the tremors run through his small form from head to toe. He lets out a breath he had been holding, and she notices his exhales stutter and shake.

“Breathe, Hamid. I’m here.” Her hand moves in slow circles on his back, rhythmic and soothing. His face is pressed into her side, his words muffled against the cloth. 

“I’m sorry.”

She shushes him, still rubbing his back as her heart sinks lower at his words. _Oh great Aphrodite, guide us through this._ “There is no shame in seeking comfort, Hamid.” 

He clings to her, his body a small furnace despite the shivers that continue to run through him. She wonders if it's the shock of what happened finally claiming its toll. Silence stretches between them and ever so slowly, Hamid's breathing calms, settling into a soothing, shared rhythm. Time passes and his shaking subsides, and finally he readjusts himself in her arm, face no longer pressed into her clothes. 

His hand reaches out and curls around the blanket, once again smoothing the edges around Sasha’s sleeping form. He sighs, and then mumbles softly, “I’m glad you’re both all right.”

“And I am grateful that you are too,” she replies, briefly squeezing him against her side as the image of his small body engulfed in flames replays through her mind. The terrifying moment of not knowing. She closes her eyes, wondering if there’s something more he’s apologizing for. For coming so close to leaving her?

 _Aphrodite_ , she prays to her silent goddess, _please, if you can hear me, please protect him. Protect them. I can’t go through this. I can’t — I can’t lose them. I can’t be alone._

But she is unsure whether her goddess can hear her plea, and doubt fills her guilty mind even as Hamid’s breathing falls into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, and she continues to watch the twirling dusty light, hoping against hope that even without her goddess by her side, she can find a way to stay strong and let her heart guide all of them safely out of here. 

* * *

“I love you.”

“Hamid, please —” Azu is yelling, but she can feel his presence leaving her, and now she hears only the muted sounds of battle and her own screams. She doesn’t know if Hamid broke the connection on purpose or if —

She’s crying.

She cleaves through a row of villagers, splattering herself in viscera and blood, not caring if it’s blue or red as she tries to wade through bodies. She’s vaguely aware of Zolf and Cel behind her, desperately fighting to keep their distance from the villagers, or maybe from her. She can’t care anymore. She searches the mass of people down the street, converging on a single point. Where is he? Where is —

An explosion more violent than the previous two rips apart the bodies, sends limbs and dirt flying through the air, the flames licking up the side of the buildings and toppling a store facade. She’s thrown back, one arm shielding her face against the heat as the other breaks her fall. Her hand screams in pain, fingers broken by the impact, but she’s not thinking of that, can only feel her stomach dropping out from under her. 

No. No, she can’t — he can’t be — he survived the first two, he can —

Despair claws at her mind and she’s scrambling to her feet, fighting again, swinging her axe, shoving through the few people left standing, tripping on the rough ground of the crater left by the blast. 

She gets to him before the hoards of infected: his tiny body at the centre of the crater, black with ash, burnt scales. Unmoving. She can’t think, can’t feel, can only run to his side, pick him up, his limbs limp to her touch, bits of burnt clothing flaking from him, skin hotter than she’s ever felt it. Pressing her fingers to his frail neck, she tries to feel for his heartbeat, but all she can hear and feel is the rush of her own blood in her ears. She listens for his breathing. She has to — she has to listen, has to remember what they taught her at — at — her healing, right. She can heal him. 

With trembling hands, she holds him closer to her chest and calls on Aphrodite, begging Her to save him, begging for him to still be alive. Azu feels the warmth of her goddess pour through her into Hamid’s body, a faint pink glow lighting his chest. And then, too quickly, it subsides, and still he’s not moving. She screams in frustration, clinging to him desperately, pressing her lips to his forehead as her shoulders shake with choking sobs. 

“Hamid, I’m here. We promised, and I’m here. Please don’t leave me. Not you — not you too. I can’t — without you, I can’t —.”

Azu’s held Hamid dozens of times, held his still, sleeping body against hers every night since their return from Rome, but it’s only now, unable even to feel for his breathing, that she realizes how small he is. When he was alive — when he’s awake, he has a way of filling a room, the warmth from his smile spreading to her heart, every time he speaks her name a reassurance that she is not alone. But now, he’s just fragile and broken, his body losing its heat, growing colder every second. 

Beyond her cries, she can hear the sounds of battle. She looks up to see the villagers regrouping, circling around her once more. She shifts Hamid to one arm, cradling him gently, and with the other, brandishes her axe despite her broken fingers, threatening the crowd to come closer. They stay away, still smiling faintly, doubtlessly silently planning their next attack. She’s surrounded. 

The moment she casts her eyes in the direction of the rest of the party, the spell is broken, and the infected descend like a crashing wave. 

Her body responds on pure instinct, still sheltering Hamid close to her chest while she cleaves and strikes down foe after foe. Her other hand glows with the burning love of Aphrodite as she attempts to heal Hamid, draining her body of energy, everything she has so that he can live. She can’t tell whether the magic is connecting any more than she can tell whether her axe is hitting its target — all she knows is that he’s not stirring, no matter how much she yells.

Numbly, she thinks back on his very last words to her. She hadn’t — she didn’t say it back. She didn’t tell him and now — 

“Aphrodite, I — please forgive me,” she prays between swings, her words muddled with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t say — I’m sorry, I can’t lose him, please.” 

Nothing. No response. Her hands are numb and cold, divine energy no longer flowing from her fingers. Aphrodite’s gone. Hamid’s gone. She’s alone. She can’t see beyond the mass of infected descending on her. She falls to her knees and buries her face in Hamid’s mess of hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him, still there beneath all the fire and death. And there, in the moment before the end, she speaks the words she should have said before.

“I love you too.”


	3. Where we see enough to follow

The night before, Zolf watches the fading moonlight glitter across the waves as the small boat cuts a path through the water. The mainsail flutters as he changes course, following the wind, and he ducks just in time for the boom to swing around. The wind picks up and the sail billows out again, his hand holding firm on the tiller. Despite the nervous ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach about the coming mission, he can’t stop himself from smiling. The night is beautiful, the sea is calm, and the salty wind is in his hair.

His eyes travel across the length of the deck, across his friends’ sleeping forms huddled in the bow of the ship. Against his warnings, Azu is wearing her armour, the soft glow illuminating the wooden hull around her. Cel is tucked in beside her, one arm underneath their head, eyes covered in the crook of their elbow as their mouth hangs slightly open, softly snoring. Hamid is nestled aft of the mast, closest to him, the only one who can easily lie down across the breadth of the boat. His back is turned to Zolf, his pack underneath his head and his cape tightly wrapped around him. 

As Zolf watches, Hamid fidgets and turns around, his right arm replacing his left around the pack. It’s dark, but Zolf’s eyes are well-trained and he can see the reflection of the moonlight in Hamid’s eyes as they blink up at him, awake. In the last few weeks, Zolf’s rarely seen Hamid fall asleep without holding Azu’s hand, and he briefly wonders if that is the reason why he’s now so restless. 

“You should sleep, Hamid,” Zolf says gently, and he readjusts their course, eyes flicking up to scan the mainland near the horizon. There is a moment of quiet from Hamid, before he sits up with a weary sigh. Instinctively, Zolf wants to warn him about the boom — before realizing it doesn’t matter; sitting down, Hamid’s head barely comes up above the wooden railing. 

Hamid follows his gaze towards the horizon, and the soft wind plays with his dark hair, curling across his forehead despite Hamid’s desperate attempts to keep it neat and tidy. His fingers brush through it absentmindedly. There’s something on Hamid’s mind, Zolf knows, and they did say they’d get better at the talking thing...

“Well, if you’re not going to sleep, you might as well make yourself useful. Learn something in case I get blown overboard before morning or something.”

Hamid hesitates for a moment, just as nervous to reach out to Zolf as Zolf is. They’ve both been burned by the other, know that any situation that pushes the two of them together is a powder keg. But without the pressure of the others’ presence, life and death circumstances, being cooped up in quarantine… Zolf lets out a frustrated breath. They need to work on it.   
  
To his surprise, Hamid’s hesitation only lasts a moment before he moves over to him, sitting down uncertainly to his right. He places his hands between his knees to stop himself from anxiously rubbing them together, glancing at the tiller that separates them. Then his eyes flick up, searching Zolf’s face for any hint of displeasure. 

“So, do you just… push the… rudder?” Hamid says, gesturing to the tiller. 

Zolf sighs. Well, the man _did_ grow up in the desert. “The tiller. And no. You gotta — let’s just start with some knots, alright?” He picks up the end of the mainsail’s rope. “Do you know how to make an eight-knot?”

Hamid’s blank stare tells him all he needs to know and Zolf cannot help rolling his eyes before he catches himself — knows he shouldn’t. It’s all so… difficult between them. It’s like a delicate beam walk, and Zolf never was much good at balancing. Knows he’s just as likely to overcompensate as he is to say something brusque. 

He opens his hands and, without saying anything, slowly ties an eight knot. He unties it then demonstrates again before handing it back to Hamid. To his credit, Hamid’s smart enough to quickly pick up the logic of the knot, and his fingers deftly follow the pattern — but they are also fingers that have hardly seen a day of manual labour and the rope keeps slipping between them.

Zolf doesn’t say anything but shows it again, and Hamid soon picks it up. Zolf nods approvingly at his progress. “That one’s good for stopping ropes from going through things. This one's a bit harder. Bowline. Makes a loop.”

They go on like that for a while, passing the rope back and forth, with Zolf occasionally adjusting their heading, until Hamid is tying and retying a complicated stopper knot, trying to get it perfect. “Do you still think the mission comes first?” Hamid says quietly, eyes still fixed on his work.

 _So this is it, then,_ Zolf thinks. _He did want to talk about something._ “Why are you bringing this up now?”

Hamid hesitates for a moment. “We’re starting another mission.”

Zolf stares out across the dark waters, hand gripping the tiller slightly tighter as he tries to suss out what Hamid actually wants to hear. Hamid casts a glance at him, but continues to practice the knot Zolf has shown him. After a brief moment, Zolf decides to engage.

“I know you have this… notion of how this is all supposed to work. How the world is supposed to work. Heroics and all that —” Zolf grimaces at his word choice, already knowing it will probably set Hamid off, but he ignores it, plunging forward. “But this isn’t that world anymore, Hamid. The mission _has_ to come first.”

To his surprise, Hamid isn’t immediately up in arms at him. Instead, the halfling's shoulders sag and he leans back against the wood, gazing towards the bow of the ship, eyes settling on Cel’s sleeping form. On Azu’s. 

“I... I know that, Zolf. I do understand. I just — I don’t think I can make that choice.” His voice is soft and uncertain, his hands resting in his lap, the rope still held loosely.

In his heart, Zolf knows Hamid and Azu haven’t had the same amount of time to adjust as he has. Knows they have gone through a lot, too. Things he’s missed — after Prague, after... Rome. And yet, the foolhardiness with which Hamid clings to a naive belief that no longer has any place in this world always manages to scare him. 

“You can’t make decisions based on the fear of what you might lose. It’s about more than that now.”

“I’m not... afraid.”

“That’s not what I meant. The mission — all of this, it’s more important than you or me, or Cel, or, or _Azu_. I didn’t say you were afraid — I know you’re—” Zolf runs a shaky hand down his face and beard, trying to come up with words even as he feels the frustration take hold. “This is what I _mean_ , Hamid. Making decisions based on emotion is—”

“I know I don’t always understand everything in this… _new_ world, but shutting ourselves off from every possible emotion cannot be the solution, surely?” Hamid interjects, voice urgent, not necessarily argumentative as much as he appears to seek reassurance. “Holding onto our humanity can’t be a bad thing?”

“It _is_ when it causes you to take risks you shouldn’t be taking!” The words come out angrily, but the simple fact is that it terrifies him, the way Hamid, and Azu, and sometimes even Cel look at the world. The fact that no matter the urgency, they fail to grasp the true scope and seriousness of the situation. And he’s terrified that no matter how much he tries, he cannot make them see it until it is too late. “Gods, Hamid, this is — this is like Kew all over again.”

His hand is white-knuckled on the tiller. Cel groans in their sleep, murmuring something before turning around, clearly disturbed by the agitated whispering. They both fall quiet and Zolf takes the opportunity to look pointedly out towards the sea, avoiding Hamid’s gaze as the tense silence settles between them. He knows that for all his talk about emotions, he’s once again let them get the better of him. 

“If I only ever considered the mission in my decision making, Sasha wouldn’t have been able to write that letter, you know.” Hamid’s voice is quiet and sends a stab of guilt through Zolf. And a rush of anger. He can’t — he doesn’t know how to talk about any of that. So he doesn’t. 

When he fails to reply, Hamid shifts beside him, eventually getting up and carefully placing the piece of rope back beside Zolf. 

“Thank you for the lessons.”

Zolf watches as Hamid resettles into his bedroll, once again turning his back to him. With nothing for company but the quiet flapping of the sail and the waves lapping against the hull of the boat, his eyes flick down towards the rope, unsurprised to find a perfect stopper knot at the end of it. 

* * *

Zolf flings destruction at their enemies while keeping the closest infected away with his flaming glaive. Next to him, Cel’s alchemic concoctions keep the writhing mass of villagers at bay and Azu’s axe glows with a holy smite. Zolf glances quickly over his shoulder, searching for any sign of Hamid. He lost sight of him in the fray minutes ago and he forces back the rising tide of panic at the thought of what that might mean. Hamid will be fine. Any second now, he’ll turn the corner, his boyish grin of adventure on his face, and the gathering horde will melt away in a ball of flame. 

Cel yells a warning and he lunges sideways, bringing his glaive up to block the sword swinging toward his legs. Stupid, stupid. He pulls his focus back to the fight, touching the end of a spear and letting death flow into the blue-veined hands holding it. 

It's when he can already feel the energy sapping away from him, knowing it’s not much longer that he can go on like this, that he hears the first explosion. Azu yells out for Hamid and between spells, Zolf follows her gaze to the halfling, off in the distance. He stands at the centre of a small crater, his clothes singed and his hair a mess, manic laughter frozen in place as his terrified eyes lock with Azu’s. 

Zolf’s heart skips several beats, cold fear racing through his veins as he realizes exactly what Hamid’s doing. _No_. He can’t —

Azu’s clearly having the same thought, desperately trying to find an opening to run for him. Hamid, though, raises a hand and points to her, his lips forming silent words, smile wiped from his face as he dashes off. Limping, he runs down a side street, drawing dozens of villagers away from the party. It takes all of Zolf’s effort not to run after him, to protect the small halfling from certain death even as his mind screams that it’s too late. 

There’s only one reason that Hamid would abandon them, only one thing that would force him to leave Azu behind, to leave his friends surrounded and in danger, to turn his magic on himself. If that’s — if it’s true, then nothing can save him now. Zolf’s mind reels at the conclusion, but a stoic wall of self-protection falls between him and all possible ‘what if’ scenarios, shielding him from idle hope in the face of stark reality. He has to keep fighting. 

It has to be better this way. After their conversations last night. After Paris, after Kew, after — Hamid has always wanted to be a hero. At least this way he won’t die at the hands of a friend. With a sudden rush of shame, Zolf realizes that he’s grateful. At least this way he won’t have to...

Azu’s voice rises, desperate and pleading as she begins edging away from the group, moving toward the wall of blue-veined bodies separating her from Hamid. Zolf snaps back to reality.

“Azu, no! It’s too late.” He flings a hand out helplessly to stop her but is forced to whirl back and plunge his glaive into a villager charging toward Cel. If two of them leave —

A second blast sounds and Zolf flinches, picturing Hamid wreathed in his own flames, that mix of terror and laughter still on his small face. Zolf clutches his glaive with white knuckled hands and offers up a silent prayer to a god who no longer listens that his friend’s end is mercifully quick. 

A grief-stricken cry rings out from behind him and Azu lunges forward, cleaving through flesh and bone, gore splattering her face, her armour. She carves a bloody path through the villagers surrounding her, sprinting toward the last place she saw Hamid, swearing at him, begging him to return. 

“Azu, come back! He wouldn’t — he wouldn’t want you to throw your life away too!”

His cries fall on deaf ears as she moves like a whirlwind of death, bodies tossed away from her like errant leaves with a strength Zolf’s never seen before. Spells and weapons hit her, villagers grab at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice them, intent only on finding Hamid. Zolf curses fervently as she turns the corner and disappears. 

He has to focus on the enemies bearing down on him, on the possibility that he and Cel might still survive, but his mind is screaming at him, berating him for what he knows is his fault. He should have known this would happen, knew that neither of them had ever promised to put the mission before each other. He should have recognized it in Azu’s silent panic when she’d been separated from Hamid at Shoin’s, and in his own relief when the two of them had been reunited. He’d seen the way they held each other at night, and somewhere deep inside of him he’d been jealous of it, how they still allowed themselves to believe in each other. How they hadn’t gone through 18 months of uncertainty and terror until all they could make themselves believe in was the mission — like him. 

Idiot. He should have _known_.

As he furiously thrusts his burning glaive into another blue-veined chest, the third blast goes off, greater than any Zolf’s ever felt before, shaking the earth beneath him and sending dirt and bodies into the air, above the buildings blocking Hamid from view. Zolf feels the wind knocked out of him, barely keeping on his feet. Which means — Hamid had survived the second one, then. He’d still been running, injured, gathering energy for another eruption of terrifying flame. Even after all that. For them.

Seconds later, over the clamour of battle, he hears Azu’s cry. Wordless, hopeless. He knows what it means. She’s alive, and she’s alone. And she’ll die alone, no matter how hard she fights. 

He feels warm fingers closing around his wrist and he looks up. Cel stares at him, silent, serious, desperate. Any words he might have had die on his lips. In their eyes, he can tell that they’re picturing the same thing as him. Azu, furious, terrified, abandoned. Hamid —

He hesitates. Endless scenarios of how this will end run through his mind’s eye. All the previous conversations he’s had about this possibility. All those arguments with Wilde. All the consequences of the past mistakes they’d made. 

Cel’s eyes contain a question, and in the end, he simply nods.


	4. Where our hands hurt from healing

Hamid wakes. Vision and sounds are a bleary cacophonous mess at the edge of his awareness. His mind is heavy, stuffed with cotton, but when he tries to move, frayed nerves signal endless pain into his small existence. He retreats from it, scared, helpless. 

His world is small. But through the soft haze of near-unconsciousness he becomes aware of one thing: he is being carried. There’s a pressure and a rhythm familiar from being held so many times. 

Images flit through his muddled mind as he tries to form a single coherent thought. The blue veins — is he…? An electrifying buzz of panic passes through his senses at the thought that he might still be alive. _Captured_. It wasn’t enough. _He_ wasn’t enough. He tries to scream, but the sound won’t pass the heavy wall between himself and the world. Instead, he plunges his will inwards, desperately searching for more fire, for anything. He finds himself empty. Hot tears well up in his eyes at a powerlessness he hasn’t known for a long time. 

Another sound. Someone crying. In his cloudy mind, he finally realizes — it’s Azu, a familiar arm cradling him gently as she sobs, shouts, and fights. He wants nothing more than to reach out to her, to reassure her that he’s still alive, but he can’t force his mouth to open. Numbly, he remembers it was her he was trying to save. 

_I failed, then_ , Hamid thinks and the black waves of unconsciousness take him under once again.

* * *

Zolf watches a brief flicker of fear pass through Cel’s eyes before they, too, nod in confirmation. Then their usual wonky smile returns to their face and they rip out a vial from their coat, chugging it. They transform, their face elongating into a snout, their skin glistening with bronze scales, and a flaming red lizard’s beard down their neck. Their hands, still clutching the potion, form terrifying claws until they throw away the bottle, their now pupil-less eyes seared white with excitement. Screaming a half-human sound of anger and elation, they turn from Zolf, their burning tail nearly hitting him, and begin clawing at the villagers in front, clearing a path. 

Zolf stands in shock before remembering himself and following, sprinting through Cel's wake. Their path down the side-street through which Hamid escaped is easier than it would have been before — Hamid’s fire littered the ground with charred, mutilated, blue-veined corpses and thinned the crowds of infected. They skirt around craters and debris left in Hamid’s wake, Cel’s lizard eyes glancing around keenly, the both of them swiftly dispatching straggling survivors of Azu’s grief.

There’s a ring of infected in the crater before them, and Zolf moves down across the rubble, sliding and stumbling. He can’t see Azu towering above the villagers, and fear grips his heart. Are they too late? Did he hesitate too long — Cel seems unconcerned about such hypothetical scenarios. Their form is a blur when they streak past him, bowling into the nearest infected. They tear through bodies, their claws covered in sinew as they release a fiery, raging roar, a mirror of Hamid’s final blow against Shoin’s mechanism. Zolf follows, his glaive leaving a streak of white-hot flame in its wake as he swings it with a pure, mad energy, slashing through limbs and torsos. 

And then he breaks through, stumbling into the middle, and he’s almost afraid to look. Azu kneels amid the destruction, armour dented, blood flowing from wounds to her head and neck, hunched forward and enveloping Ham— the body— 

Zolf remembers helping a drunken Hamid to his room after their toast to Sasha, remembers how even passed out the halfling had snuggled into his side, moulded himself into his arms as he carried him, subconsciously seeking comfort. As he watches Azu carry Hamid's tiny body now, he cannot help but notice the way he hangs limp in her arms, not curling into her side, no response to her touch. Dead weight. Dead.

Zolf closes his eyes and does not pray. Instead, he hopes. Calling on the last embers of energy inside him, he lays two gentle hands on Azu’s back. Soft cooling energy flows from him, siphoned into her like a literal lifeline. Her body barely moves under his palms. Zolf, breathless, focuses, dimly aware of Cel tearing through the rows of infected behind him. He pours in more healing, letting it overflow. Everything he has, for her. He falls to his knees, his perception spinning to a single point, his body dried of power. 

Azu stirs beneath him.

He takes a breath, air burning into his lungs, his hands shaking, his cheeks wet with tears he hadn’t realized he had shed. And as his senses return to him, he becomes aware of the eerie calm. He opens his eyes. 

Azu stands in front of him, back turned, holding Hamid’s body. Cel flanks her on the right, breathing heavily, growling, coppery red scales flexing across their skin. Using the glaive as a crutch, he shakily rises to his feet by her side. He glances at her, and then follows her death glare towards what is in front of them. 

Scattered, injured rows of infected, staring silently. Calculating. Waiting. Zolf instinctually shifts his weight, legs finding solid purchase on the ground as his hands adjust and clutch his glaive firmly. Cel roars a rolling red flame, challenging. Next to him, Azu — somehow — manages to heave up her great axe with one hand, the metal glinting in the sun. One hand clinging to Hamid, her eyes flare with righteous fury as she grins mirthlessly. 

“Come and get him.”

For several infinite moments they are frozen like that, stuck in a terrifying stand-off between life and death. 

Then, as if commanded by one single voice, the first row of villagers steps back. Followed by others. Like an ocean parting, flowing back into alleys and buildings, silent eyes boring into them until they three remain standing.


	5. We can hear when we are hollow

Rain patters on the roof tiles as Cel watches the strangers limping into the village in the small hours of a dreary night. They send Jasper out with blankets, tea, and other supplies to distribute among the cold and injured; he returns with news that Cel could have predicted. They’re refugees from a village a few hours away, victims of Shoin’s latest ‘expansions.’ Whether the refugees refused Shoin’s taxes or had simply been unable to pay doesn’t matter; Cel learns that they could do nothing but run when they woke to flames, their village burnt and raided as they fled, leaving behind so much more than just memories in those ashes. Friends. Family.

As Jasper goes out once more with healing potions, Cel remains behind, staring out from the half-closed shutters of their shop, unable to face the survivors. Not yet. They already know what they’ll see, the questions they’ll be asked. _Why didn’t you help us?_

Even from their place by the window, they recognize the look in the refugees’ eyes. Not just fear, not just sadness, not just anger. Desperation. A willingness to do anything. Because anything’s worth it to try to get back what you’ve lost, when what you lost was everything. It’s the same thing they’ve seen in innumerable warzones.

Cel can see it the next morning in the eyes of the woman standing on their doorstep. A small child hides behind the folds of her tunic, clutching the fabric, and they know that the battered, muddy pack of supplies slung over the woman’s shoulder must now hold their entire life’s possessions. 

“You’re the only one who can!” She’s saying, a sharp edge of anger to her voice. “You could have stopped him if you were there. Everyone knows about you. They say Shoin’s scared of you. You have to do _something_ , you can’t just — can’t just hide here and wait for him to kill all of us. My sister _died_ —”

“I’m sorry,” Cel says, their voice almost a whisper under the woman’s shouts. Their words are not for the benefit of the woman — Cel knows she is beyond listening — but they have to be said anyway. Sentiments that they’ve expressed for what feels like a hundred times now. Cel’s words continue to spill out, slow and steady, so unlike their normal pratter. “There’s nothing I can do. I can protect you here, but I can’t protect the whole island.”

When the woman finally turns away in disgust, leaving their ears ringing and their heart hollow, Cel closes the door and leans against the wall, letting themself slide slowly down to the floor, the woman’s pleading face still swimming in front of their mind’s eye.

Cel know their words of sympathy ring false. They _could_ fight. They’ve never believed in binary choices, always known that there are more than two options, never had a moment where their mind hadn’t been buzzing with endless possibilities. They could try to arm the island against Shoin’s ever-increasing attacks — even if they’ve seen what happens when untrained civilians wield arms against infinitely more competent attackers, their own weapons turned against them in an instant. They could call in some favours with their old contacts — and though gods know where they are, they’d probably come, bringing their own death and destruction and problems. Cel could race around from village to village, trying to anticipate Shoin’s next move — leaving their only home in decades unprotected. Or they could simply confront Shoin directly, hit him where it hurts the most — and if they themself are to be the next casualty, perhaps that’s the price they pay for the few happy years they’ve spent on this island. 

So many things they could have done, _could do_ , but don’t. Because it would mean getting involved. They know they are capable of protecting a village, have done so for several years now. But an entire island? No, better not to try. Better not to get attached.

And when they finally manage to settle their breathing and force themself up from the floor, putting on their cheerfulness like an old coat — when they make tea for Jasper and see his face light up with a smile — when they help what refugees they can, forcing memories of a thousand burning battlefields from their mind —

They know it’s worth it. The dreams that haunt their sleep at night, the guilt that settles in their stomach every time they see the woman walking the village — it’s a small price to pay for the safety of their home. For their own happiness. To protect the small part of the world that is truly theirs.

It has to be worth it, right?

* * *

A clang breaks the tense silence and Cel startles. Turning around, they see that Azu’s dropped her axe and her intimidating pose, once again falling to her knees and cradling Hamid in both arms. She’s weeping, great wracking sobs shaking her whole body like an earthquake.

“He’s — Hamid, he’s —” she says, forcing out words between ragged breaths. “I don’t know if he’s — I can’t tell, I was too late, I couldn’t — _please_ ,” she says, and Cel’s not sure whom she’s begging, but Zolf is there, one hand on the burnt, scaled body in Azu’s arms. 

In the drop of adrenaline after their enemies retreat, the moment of examination seems to last a century to Cel. It’s a moment they’ve lived dozens of times, waiting to know whether their friends will live, whether it will be a reunion or a funeral or — well, at least they have the body. That’s more than they’ve usually had. Cel desperately wants to run forward, to see for themself, but their legs won’t move, a familiar fear coursing through them — that whether through action or inaction, they will still be forced to watch their friends die.

It’s their own fault for getting involved again. They told themself, after they came back from the Institute, that these friends, their cause, the chance to stop more people like Shoin — it was all worth it. Worth leaving home for. And now that balancing act that had barely begun is already spinning out of control as the risks crystalize, as every failure in battle tips the scale towards their greatest fears. 

And then, as Cel feels gravity’s spinning pull about to claim them, Zolf’s warm, gruff voice cuts through their panic. “He’s alive. He’s barely — I don’t have any healing left, Cel —” Zolf turns around, and Cel sees properly for the first time the streaks of tears running down his cheeks and the desperation on his face. They’d thought for sure he’d be angry, yelling at everyone and himself for their foolishness, but he just looks tired and scared. “Cel, do you have anything?”

Cel knows the answer before they reach into their jacket and find it empty. It’s been a desperate battle, every potion the difference between life and death. They shake their head, for once unable to produce words, and guilt crashes over them as they watch Zolf’s shoulders sag with exhausted defeat. 

He turns back to Azu. “We’ll just have to do our best ‘til we get back, then,” he murmurs. “Can I —?” He pulls a kit from his bag and gestures to Hamid. Azu loosens her grip on him slightly, allowing Zolf to treat the burns on Hamid’s legs and torso. Throughout, she still holds him tight, as if letting him go would mean losing him forever.

Cel stays back, swallowing down their unsteadying fear, resisting the desire to rush forward and see Hamid for themself — to find any detail that Zolf might have missed, some other way to help him. Instead, they force their eyes to roam the streets and buildings, picking up the glint of eyes and weapons in every shadow. Will the infected return in a moment of weakness when they let their guard down, regrouping from the main square to attack them anew? Or are they content to let them leave, because they know —

It’s the first moment Cel has had to properly breathe. To think. In the rush of battle there never was an opportunity to consider all the ramifications, but now, in this moment of relative calm, they look down on themself. Eyes sweeping over their limbs, cataloguing injuries, blood and grisly remnants of infected bodies stuck to their clothing. The slow realization creeps up in the back of their mind, like an icy chill. 

Zolf stands, the beads of sweat on his concentrated face mingling with grime and tearstains. “Should get going soon. Not safe here. Just… just gimme a sec to catch my breath.” He leans on his glaive again, like it’s the only thing keeping him up, taking a moment before turning towards Cel. 

Cel pushes their horror deep down into the dark recesses of their mind, instead catching Zolf’s eye. And as he sees their expression, there is an understanding that flickers between them — that Cel has to see for themself. He nods before positioning himself between Azu and the nearest building, taking over the task of watching the shadows with a weary eye, granting Cel a moment of time before they leave. Finally, Cel allows themself to let their guard down. Tiredness takes them while with a shudder, they drop their fire lizard form, claws retracting into fingers, scales retreating into soft, scratched-up skin, burning throat choking back flame. They move towards Azu’s side, finally allowing themself to look at the ones who are worth so much. To hope.

Cel knows more than anyone that a person's size and shape can belie their true power, but still they can’t help themself kneeling down by Azu with a sort of reverence, staring at Hamid's small form in her arms. That such power could be contained in such a little lad — they look up at Azu’s grief-stricken face — and that such love could be contained in such a devoted warrior. Cel gives her arm a small, encouraging squeeze, and she blinks but does not respond. They look down at Hamid once more. Slowly they remove their jacket, draping it across Azu's arms, softly wrapping Hamid's battered body while the tattered remnants of his own clothes hang off his injured limbs.

"Stay with us, little buddy. We still need your big heart."


	6. We can drift and call it dreaming

The boat rocks and creaks in the late afternoon wind, but Azu can barely hear it. Her senses feel numb, blunted even hours after the battle. She’s cold, maybe, or maybe it’s Hamid in her arms who saps the warmth from her. Or perhaps it’s the pulsing, dreadful fear that won’t leave her veins. Fear that it’s not real. That if she takes her eyes away from him for a single second, it will all be stolen from her, his survival a cruel fantasy created by her broken heart. 

It takes all her effort to remember to breathe, the steady rhythm of Hamid’s chest rising and falling guided by her own, as if she alone is keeping him breathing — or perhaps he is guiding her. Pushing away the world around her, she hums a half-forgotten lullaby through cracked, bloody lips.

A sudden gust of wind cuts across the bow of the boat, causing Cel’s jacket to flutter upwards from Hamid’s legs sprawled across her lap. Azu tucks the edges more snugly around him, letting out a hiss of pain as the fabric catches against her broken fingers. She rests them on Hamid’s hand, still firmly clenched into a claw and hanging limply down, all blackened scales and scorched skin. From what feels like far away, she’s vaguely aware of Zolf handing off the sail to Cel and coming to rest beside her. He looks her over, quietly, and then reaches out, hesitating. 

“Azu?” Zolf kneels, grimacing in sympathy. “Azu, your hand.” 

His hand hovers over her twisted, swollen fingers, still holding Hamid close to her. “Those fingers are broken, you didn’t say — I’m sorry, I should've noticed. I’ll… can I set them?”

She barely acknowledges him, the pain already nearly forgotten, unimportant. However, still keeping her eyes fixed on Hamid, she slowly settles him more comfortably against her shoulder, freeing her arm. Unspoken permission for Zolf to help.

Zolf gently lifts her damaged hand from Hamid’s and cradles it in his, washing away the grime and blood. He carefully straightens the broken fingers with a murmured apology, fashioning a makeshift splint. She winces from the piercing pain, like fire racing up her arm, but remains focused on Hamid’s face. Her uninjured hand combs slowly through his hair. She knows he hates for it to be out of place.

Her hand now wrapped in a loose bandage, Zolf returns it to Hamid’s arm, fingers resting on his wrist again where she can feel the reassuring, fragile beat of his heart. The small bronze scales rippling up from Hamid’s curled up claw feel smooth under her dirty, scraped skin. Zolf reaches for a fresh cloth from his pack and dampens it with his water flask. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he begins tenderly wiping the streaks of blood and ash away from the stinging cuts on her face. 

Somewhere beyond the fuzziness in her ears, he’s murmuring reassurances as he cares for her. “Hamid’ll be okay,” he’s saying. “He’s — he’s done this before, you shoulda seen him in Kew. Thought he was — but he sprung right back up again. Just needs some proper healing and he’s gonna be — it’s — you saved him.” 

She knows what he’s not saying. It’s in his strained tone, his stammered words, in the way he can’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. Zolf believes Hamid is infected, believes all of them are infected. He’s trying to spare her from the grim realization for as long as possible, afraid it will break her, the knowledge that Hamid will die regardless. That they all will. But as she presses a soft kiss to Hamid’s forehead, she can’t find it in her to care. She needs him to be okay _now_. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, words finally coming to her. “Thank you.” 

Zolf nods, his hand remaining on her shoulder for a few moments longer before he stands and returns to Cel. Azu falls back into an old melody, recalling the comforting lullabies from her youth. As she rocks Hamid slowly to the rhythm of her song, she watches his claws gradually unclench and return to hands and the scales fade away, the last traces of his ancestry retreating as he finally curls into her. Tears slipping down her cheek, she offers a silent prayer to Aphrodite that it’s a sign of his pain easing, a subconscious recognition of safety, and nothing else. 

* * *

There is singing.

There is nothing else in the ocean of pain, but there is singing. A calm, steadying voice that reminds him of home. Halfway to humming. An old tune. 

There is singing, and Hamid knows it must be Aziza. He must be in his room in Cairo, and she’s finally home from tour. He can almost feel it now, her gentle hands running through his hair, her lilting voice teasing him for how late he’s sleeping in. Soon, he knows, they’ll be called for lunch, and he’ll have to get up. But for now, as sunlight pours through his windows and soft sheets surround him, he and Aziza can stay like this. And she can sing. 

But no, something’s wrong, because the singing cuts off, and with every breath, Hamid can feel his sister slipping away as he’s plunged into icy blackness once again. He wants to cry out, reach out for her, for that piece of heaven that he hopes he’s earned, but shivers overtake him, wracking his whole body until all he can do is shake. He’s not used to feeling cold. He wants to warm himself by the fire, but there is none.

And there’s no singing, but there’s gentle rocking and the creaking of a wooden sail. Is he on a boat? Maybe the storm on the channel has subsided, then, and Zolf has managed to steady their driftwood ship. He tries to get up, wants to check on Sasha, offer to warm her soaked clothes, but his own cold limbs are too heavy and cry out with pain at every movement. And no — it can’t be Sasha moving in the corner of his vision, she’s — Sasha’s —

He has no energy left in him to cry. 

It takes everything he has just to stay afloat, to ride the waves of consciousness, to try to remember where he is. Fear. Pain. Fire. Carrying. Maybe if he concentrates on the pain, he’ll know why it’s coursing through his veins, alighting every nerve in his body, draining him of warmth. Moving through him like infection, like the hands that —

And then, amid the panic, there is singing again. It’s Azu’s voice, low and beautiful, and he doesn’t recognize the song but he knows it, deep to his core. It pours into him, warming him, restoring the fire that’s left his body. 

There is singing, and Hamid knows where he is. Home. 

* * *

“I think that should help,” Zolf mutters, returning to Cel and taking the sail again. “Azu’s doing — well, she’s talking a bit now, which is more than — yeah. And Hamid’s… stable.”

Cel follows his gaze to Azu, sitting in the middle of the boat, huddled around Hamid’s still-unconscious form and humming softly. They want desperately to ignore how wrong the image is — how strange it is to see her look so vulnerable even as she tries to protect Hamid. Cel’s seen her scared, seen her seconds from death, but they’ve never seen her like this, as if the slightest sign that Hamid’s not fine would cause her to crumple into nothingness. She’s been like this for hours now, from the battle to their walk back to the boat.

“Good, that’s, uh, yeah, that’s good,” Cel says. “About Azu and about Hamid. If he’s not, you know —” Cel tries to lower their voice as much as possible “— if he doesn’t make it, I don’t know about her, I just, I —”

“Yeah,” Zolf says, cutting them off. “But — look. If he’s… you know… then we are too, and so is she. That’s not — we can’t change that now. We just have to wait.” His rough voice softens again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to…”

“No, I mean, cheers Mr. Smith, but I uh, I made my choice back there, you know, just like you did. It’s — it’s not _great_ , but…” Cel trails off, trying not to think of what their choice means for Jasper. For their home. They fall back into silence, listening to the quiet creaking of the boat, the lapping of waves, and Azu’s broken lullaby. In the stillness, Cel shivers, though the wind bears no chill.

Zolf eyes them, then ties off the sail and sits beside them with a weary sigh. For a moment, it looks like he might be trying to say something, express some anger or frustration or sadness, but he stays quiet. Finally, Cel bites their lip and slowly leans against him. Zolf freezes slightly, then releases a shaky breath and relaxes.

"You know, Mr. Smith, it’s funny really," Cel says after a moment, letting out a soft, surprised chuckle, "... Well, maybe not funny, not really. More like sad. But I told Hamid before all this that I no longer partook in the mercenary life because after a while you get a little beaten down with all the memorial services and what not. Looking back, I guess not having a body was, in some ways, easier… even with all the not knowing. Because this — “ Cel gestures around at all of them, frowning, “you know, having everyone alive, but still not knowing is... worse. It's worse." 

They look down at their hands, turning them over and over, studying them as if daring the blue to creep up from underneath their skin right then and there. Silently, a tear streaks down their face. And then another. 

A hand reaches out to cover Cel’s, twining their fingers together. Zolf slips a gentle arm around their shoulders, and Cel closes their eyes, tilting their head down to rest against his with a weary sigh. He offers no empty words of comfort, and Cel finds they’re strangely grateful for the silence. There are no words that can alter their fate, but Cel grips his hand and his presence holds them steady, like an anchor. _It’s worth it_ , he seems to say silently. _It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it._ It was worth getting involved, even though they’ll all die. 

They lean against each other, breathing in the salty ocean air, a shared moment of understanding and grief. A bird’s call breaks the silence, and Cel looks up, spotting a black-tailed gull perched at the top of the mast, head tilted to one side as it looks out across the waves. The gull’s cry pierces through the calm again, wings powerfully beating against the air as it takes flight, soaring away from them, and Cel gives a small smile through their tears. 

“It’s a good omen, isn’t it, Mr. Smith, seeing a bird at sea?” Cel says quietly. “We could use a little good luck.” 

“It’s all we’ve got now. Luck and hope.”


	7. We can weep and call it singing

“Do the Passion of the Sun!” Azu says, laughing. 

The sound catches Oscar’s attention, and he looks up from the paperwork in his hands as the last rays of daylight bathe the side of the inn in a pink glow. He shifts forward, legs sprawled across the porch steps where he is seated, and watches as Cel spins in a circle, changing their outfit to an elaborate pirate costume he vaguely recognizes from the cover of one of Zolf’s Campbell novels. Not far from the porch, Azu sits leaning against the big maple tree in the inn’s curtilage with Hamid curled up against her side. They both have amused smiles on their faces as they watch Cel experimenting with Hamid’s magical sleeves. 

They’ve been at it for almost half an hour now, their laughter settling their nerves before the mission tonight. All of them are taking advantage of a last free afternoon to enjoy the sun on their skin and the wind in their hair before inevitably spending another week in quarantine upon their return. On the other end of the porch, Zolf sits, watching them and peeling potatoes for their dinner. Zolf may try to hide it, but Oscar thinks he can see a faint, fond smile on his face. 

In a matter of hours, they’ll all be dead to him. Consigned to empty graves until they return and pass their week in quarantine.

He shouldn’t be here. Should have remained in his office behind a carefully closed door. He’s not making it any easier to let them go. He watches Zolf, the stoic way in which he prepares dinner, save for the twinkle in his eyes. _Don’t get carried away with them,_ Oscar had warned him not three weeks ago. And yet.

He lets his eyes wander back to the others. Cel has been a welcome addition, one who had been on his list of potential recruits for a while. But it had been the return of Azu and Hamid that really set the wheels in motion again — and not just for the mission. He eyes them now, their hands clasped tightly even in relaxation. He rarely sees one without the other a few steps away. They depend on each other, hold each other steady, in warmth and desperation. And that warmth between them, rather than pushing others away, draws the rest close. Their trust has become a pillar for the whole team to stand on. A constant they didn’t have before. Even Barnes and Carter — already off on their own mission, investigating an alternate means of transportation to Svalbard — seem drawn towards them. 

He knows that seeing Hamid again had dragged up old hurt and frustrations for Zolf. Before all this, Zolf had been quiet, steady, diligent. Dour, but persistent. He’d known what he had to do, was always willing to do it. But there’s an edge to him now, and a doubt that makes it sharper. A familiar fear of failure, loss, concerns Zolf had thought buried beneath his grim hope. But then, there’s a life there, too, something Oscar had barely noticed Zolf had lacked before. He cares. Maybe he cares so much that it hurts, maybe he wishes he didn’t care as much, but he cares. And that lights him up in a way his new faith never has. 

Oscar hasn’t decided whether the benefits outweigh the danger. 

“You sure about this, Wilde?” Zolf says, and Oscar looks up and sees him easing himself downward to sit on the steps by his side. 

“Yes,” Oscar lies. “There should be no complications. Curie’s information is solid.” He’s been reviewing her letter for hours, etching every detail into his brain. The nameless contact that promised to get them in touch with Earhart. The town, just a few hours from Okunoshima by boat. The passage there, the sea currents, the weather. It should be a simple mission, nothing like the dangers of the Shoin Institute. And yet he’s more worried for them than he was then. _Afraid to lose them_ , that voice in the back of his head says, and he pushes back with — _afraid that their new bonds will unravel them_. 

“You’ll keep them on track,” Oscar says, looking up at Zolf — a statement, not a question. Or maybe an order. 

“Managed it last time,” Zolf says, with a hint of reproach in his voice. “I know what’s at stake.”

Oscar nods, willing the words to comfort him, and follows Zolf’s gaze back to the group, where Hamid is animatedly waving his hands, telling a story that keeps Cel and Azu at rapt attention. They are the beating heart of his ragtag team, the golden glue holding it together like the kintsugi pots on the shelves above his desk in the inn. 

Oscar knows he’d shatter them to save the world. Four lives for tens of thousands, millions — an acceptable risk. A familiar choice. But he also knows that if afterwards you have no more glue left to repair the cracks, to piece the broken shards back into a whole, it’ll stay shattered. Without them —

He buries the fear in the back of his mind, offers a crooked smile to Zolf as he traces the scar on his cheek, and turns back to the letter. 

It’s just a simple mission. 

* * *

Oscar’s office is too quiet. 

Its decorated walls seem to close in on him as his tired eyes scan the same words over and over, rereading the letter he could recite from memory. He knows he should have slept last night, just as well as he knows he’d have spent the night staring at the ceiling if he’d tried. With each hour of sleeplessness, doubt flickers through his mind for the thousandth time since the departure of his fri— agents. He has no reason to distrust Curie, but how many times has he warned his team of the frailty of information? 

From his window, he watches yellow clouds streaked with pink and orange reflect across the waters outside the inn. He sips his cooling tea with a troubled frown as he runs through the timeline of their mission. The speed of the boat in these winds, the distance to the village, the length of the meeting, the return trip, the time allowed for unexpected delays…

As if pulled by some unseen force, Oscar finds himself wandering through the halls of the inn towards the front door. He steps outside, still clutching the letter, and without thinking sits on the front step of the porch, mirroring his position from yesterday. His eyes are drawn to the maple tree, to the echoes of laughter. Oscar looks out towards the waters, rippled by the cool coastal wind. He’s not waiting for them, he tells himself. It’s just a beautiful evening. No sense wasting it in the close confines of his office. They’ll be a few more hours still. 

He’s almost finished reading the letter for a fifth time when his ears pick up footsteps on the wind. He looks up to see figures in the distance — three figures, not four. Oscar’s heart sinks suddenly and it’s all he can do to keep breathing, to stop himself from grabbing one of the inn’s horses and going out to meet them. Steadying himself on the rail, he rises slowly, loose pages fluttering unnoticed to the ground. They approach in halting steps, silhouettes he now knows by heart, one tall and armoured, the second lanky, crossbow slung over their shoulder, and the third form short and stocky, glaive in hand, the missing fourth — it’s Hamid, then. _Gods, no_. 

He forces himself to move, waiting for them in front of the inn steps. There’s something strange about Azu’s silhouette, something missing, and it’s only as she draws closer that he notices her axe is not in her hands. Instead her arms are wrapped around a small form curled close to her chest, her face turned downward, steps guided more by the presence of her companions than by sight. For a brief instant, Oscar breathes a sigh of relief — he'd thought Hamid missing, vanished like — like so many others. And then a sudden fear locks his knees in place as his eyes search the body for signs of life, guilt washing over him at the realization he had been grateful that Hamid hadn’t been captured by the enemy without even knowing whether he was alive. 

Fragments of the report flash before his eyes — mistakes, miscalculations, questionable intel, the risks he deemed acceptable — and his tea falls from nerveless fingers, the shattering of the cup against the steps jarring him back to reality. As they walk, he reads the story of their mission in the tear streaks on their dirtied faces, in Azu’s arms curled protectively around Hamid, her bandaged fingers, his scorched and tattered clothing. He sees it in Cel’s hands, one tightly clutching Azu’s axe, the other gripping Zolf’s shoulder like a lifeline, in their jacket wrapped around Hamid’s still form. It’s written across Zolf in the tired lines of his face and his hunched shoulders, and Oscar knows the words the dwarf will say before he opens his mouth to speak.

“Lock us up, Wilde,” Zolf says, in that direct tone he takes when he’s been thinking of the words beforehand. “Your contact didn’t show. Some blue veins did.”

“Hamid —” says Oscar.

“Stable, for now” says Zolf. “But we’d appreciate some healing before we go in.”

Oscar bites back bitter words sharpened by grief. _Why? It’s useless. He’s already dead. You’re all dead, you fools. I should never have — senseless waste of lives and all for nothing._ It’s all he can do to keep his composure, struggling to maintain the impassive mask as he watches them. Why even let them come inside? Seven days from now the result will be no different. _They’re dead. It’s over. There’s no point anymore._

Zolf meets his eyes with a sharp, determined look, and Oscar knows that Zolf knows, too. That he made his choice. That he didn’t choose the mission. 

“Just for Hamid,” Zolf says evenly, giving nothing more, refusing to look away. 

He should kill them. He could kill them. They’re weak and exhausted. He could stun them all with little effort then deliver killing words without even touching them. They’d barely have time to react, for the betrayal to register on their faces before they fell. They’re probably expecting it. Somewhere in Zolf’s fixed gaze, Oscar wonders if he wants him to.

Oscar reaches out, the harsh song of a stunning spell on his lips even as he keeps his face emotionless, unreadable. Something deep inside him whispers, _it will be easier when you can see they’re infected. It won’t feel like you’re killing your oldest friends still living. It won’t hurt as much._ It’s a lie, not even a good one, but it’s enough to make him stop and stumble back. His legs give out as he collapses on the steps of the stairs leading up the inn. He burrows his face in his hands. He can sense Cel take an instinctive step towards him before stopping mid-motion, pulling back. Remembering the risk.

A memory flashes before his eyes: Hamid looking up at him on that airship in Paris, hand extended in unmerited friendship as he wished him luck. Standing together under the burning sun of Damascus, Hamid’s eyes warm with unhidden concern. _Do look out for yourself, Oscar. You can’t keep going forever._

That Hamid is already gone. Better not to let him wake. Better not...

Through the gaps in his fingers, his eye catches sight of the shattered porcelain teacup at his feet. He takes a shaky breath. The song comes almost unbidden from him — not the words of attack he’d been planning, but a song of healing. The tune is old, familiar, practiced, each syllable offering false reassurance, each note weaving together healing and grief. _They’re dead._ Do they hear it in his song, his hopelessness? Will Hamid wake up to his mourning? He can’t look at them as the music pours out of him, can only stare at his hands, his elbows resting on his knees and his shoulders slumped, studying the lines on his palms. He stumbles over the final words, their sense of finality tearing something from him. He’s given Hamid all he can. 

He remembers how little he consoled him after his sister died, telling him and Sasha and Grizzop — both gone now — to enter Newton’s office. How he barely gave him time to register the loss before pushing him towards a new mission. It’s hardly been a few weeks for Hamid, Oscar realizes, and something deep inside him feels guilty. Rotten.

Granting him time now is the least he can do. Hamid deserves to say goodbye. They all do.

He doesn’t meet Zolf’s eyes as he stands, turns, casts a familiar spell to clear away tears before they can be seen. And when he steps back into the inn, he hears Azu’s gasp as Hamid stirs in her arms. 

* * *

A voice filters through Hamid’s muddled consciousness, low and mournful. His memory skips among recollections, trying to place the sound, and he remembers a place and time many years ago. Painful yet soothing. He latches on, the images that flicker through his tired awareness leaving a longing ache.

Once, when Hamid was very young, Saira had fallen ill. It came on suddenly, a fainting spell during a game of tag the first indication that something was wrong — so sudden that it took almost an hour for the servants to fetch a healer from the Cult of Aphrodite. 

Father was more terrified than Hamid had ever seen him. Not angry, not disappointed, just terrified, in the way that only Mother usually got. He’d stayed by Saira's side for every second that they waited, worry etched on his usually stoic face.

Hamid, no more than six or seven at the time, had already learned to fear him. He’d stayed at Saira’s door, watching with anxiety as Father held her hand and, to Hamid’s surprise, sang to her. His voice was deep, rich, and smooth, reassuring in a way that Father had never been before. Though the melody had no words and was unfamiliar to Hamid, it seemed to tell Saira that she would be okay, that he wouldn’t let anything hurt her. Overlapping his worries for his sister, Hamid had felt a guilty jealousy that Father might be so tender with Saira but not with him. He’d been unable to turn away, transfixed by the strange scene until finally the cleric of Aphrodite had come, bustling Hamid out of the way as he healed Saira.

It was the only time Hamid had ever heard his father sing, though not for lack of hope. Every time he scraped his knee while playing, every time he fell ill, every time he cried for some reason other than Father, he’d wonder if this was the time that Father would sing to him, too, that Father would stand by his bed and tell him that he’d be okay. It never was, and Hamid had never figured out what Saira had done to garner that tenderness he’d never achieved — nor seen her achieve again.

Now, though, still fighting the heaviness that brings him under waves of unconsciousness, he can almost hear it, that warm, reassuring voice. Is Father singing for him, now? Here in this space between waking and sleeping, is Father comforting him, pulling him out, saying that he’ll be alright? With every note, he can feel himself getting stronger, more aware, conscious of the wind on his cheeks and the salty sea breeze and Azu’s warm arms and the sunset past his closed eyes and Zolf’s laboured breathing and the realization that it can’t be Father, that Father’s in jail and that he wouldn’t, not again, not after everything.

His eyes are already full of tears when they snap open.

The singing’s stopped now, the door of the inn slammed shut, but Hamid’s barely paying attention over the pain searing through every nerve of his body and — beyond everything else — Azu’s eyes, looking down on him with anxiety, love, sadness, relief. He knows what happened now, even as, _gods_ , some part of him wishes he didn’t. Hamid tries to lift his arm, to bring his hand to Azu’s cheek, but his limbs feel like lead and she shakes her head, takes his hand in hers, brings it back down to his side with a wordless, _no, you don’t have to_. He curls into her arms, barely enough energy for the sobs that threaten to wrack his body. 

He failed. He knows he failed. Their fates sealed because he failed. He failed and they couldn’t leave him. He left enough of himself for them to all fall. He should have known that even Oscar couldn’t bring himself to… 

“We should get in there,” Zolf says, and Hamid can feel Azu nod. They’re all silent as they make their way into the inn — Oscar nowhere to be seen — down the stairs to the now-expanded cell. It’s empty, save for the three mattresses and Cel’s hammock that they’d laid out before the expedition. Cel helps Zolf in and down to his mattress, his legs unworking in the cell, and both lay down their packs with a sigh, removing armour and torn outer clothing as they all settle into a quiet routine of preparing for sleep. Zolf silently removes his legs while Cel flops immediately into their hammock, limbs sprawled. 

Azu gently places Hamid on a mattress, murmuring an apology when he winces, his limbs still covered in barely healed burns that scream with pain at every movement. Wordlessly, she rises and drags her own mattress beside his, lying down parallel to him, their eyes meeting again. “I love you,” Azu whispers, and Hamid wishes there was anything he could say now to dispel the guilt on her face. None of this is her fault. 

“I love you too,” Hamid says, his voice rough after hours of unconsciousness, barely louder than a breath. 

With what sounds like a sigh of relief, Azu puts her arm around him, holding him close against her. She’s asleep in seconds, her shaky, shallow breaths deepening into a slow, steady rhythm. From across the cell, Hamid can hear Cel’s hammock creaking as their gentle snores drift down from above, and in the other corner, Zolf shifting quietly as he falls asleep. Hamid feels his own exhaustion pulling against the gaping hollowness in his chest. They’re all here, all his friends, three of the people he loves most. His second family. Azu’s been holding him, she must be infected now too, and maybe Zolf and Cel aren’t yet, but… They’re all here, and he killed them. He wasn't able to destroy himself, so he destroyed them instead. 

No. No, that’s wrong, because Azu would have come for him anyway. He knows that now, should have known it all along. Should have known that her love was stronger than his foolishness or Zolf’s insistence on the mission. It wasn’t his failure that killed them. It was his sacrifice, his attempt to be a hero, even after all this time. Or maybe… maybe they were doomed from the start, from the time the infected started swarming them. Maybe he just made it worse. 

He won’t let himself break, he promises as he falls asleep. If these are their last days, he’ll be strong for them. 


	8. It’s here where our pieces fall in place

Azu wakes up crying. 

She can only vaguely remember her dreams, all fire, death, panic, despair. All the surety that she’s too late. Not enough.

She opens her eyes and for a moment, her fear subsides as she sees Hamid in front of her, his face peaceful in sleep, his soft snores a reassurance. He’s safe. She’s safe. It was a nightmare, nothing more. He’s not —

The memories hit her like a wave — his limp body against hers, the endless onslaught of infected, the numb certainty that they’ll all die, all pouring through her, drowning her — and now she’s crying harder, her breaths ragged. Her hand moves to her mouth, muffling her sobs. 

She almost lost him, oh Her Love, she — she couldn’t — she saved him, but too late, they’re all — instinctively, she reaches out to her goddess, seeking that warm comfort, that knowledge that she’s not alone, that there is a place for her love in the world — but all she feels is a cold vacuum. 

As Azu comes up short, she feels herself falling, slipping into the lonely, forsaken emptiness. Every day she tries so hard to stay strong for her friends, and with her goddess by her side, she’s always succeeded. But now, with that well of comfort gone and nobody there to lift her up, no one left to protect or to protect her, she is left undefended against the waves of despair. Aphrodite has finally abandoned her. Left, like Grizzop and Sasha and Hamid —

“Azu?” A soft, hesitant voice reaches out to her from the darkness, cutting through her anguish. A small hand cups her cheek as she sobs. “Oh, Azu, I’m so sorry,” Hamid says quietly. Keeping one hand on her — a reassurance, a lifeline — he sits up, wincing in pain but not saying anything as he leans against the stone wall. And then, gently, he guides her head into his lap, allowing her to lie on her side, facing in towards his warmth.

The tenderness is overwhelming, undeserved, and Azu feels herself shaking harder as he holds her against him, hand resting on the back of her head, his thumb rubbing circles against her skin. 

“I’m here,” Hamid says, his voice steady, calm, deliberate like the motions of his hands. “I’m here, I’m so sorry I left, but I’m here now, I’ve got you. I’m not leaving. It’s okay, Azu.” 

She can barely speak through the tears, but she needs to say it — never wants to be too late to say it ever again. Wants to say it ten thousand more times, wants it to echo down mountain sides and across valleys. “I love you, Hamid,” she says. “I love you. I didn’t say it before, and you — I love you, I’m sorry, I —”

“It’s okay,” Hamid whispers, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss against her temple. “I know. I love you too, Azu.” He kisses her again, and another time, holding her, keeping her safe. “I know you love me. You — Azu, you _saved_ me.” 

He lets out a shaky, near-sobbing laugh, and Azu instinctively wants to comfort him, hold him, but he’s steadying himself, his hand returning to her cheek, firm in his desire to comfort her instead. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t — _didn’t_ keep my promise. You were right, and I know I keep messing up, but… I’m not letting go of you this time, okay?”

She nods into his lap, trying to be okay, trying to stay strong, trying to — “You’re going to die,” she says, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt, already wet from her tears. She shouldn’t say it, should spare him if he hasn’t realized it already, but she can’t stop herself, the shame and fear spilling out of her in the form of poisoned words. “We’re all going to die.”

“I know,” Hamid says, kissing her temple again. “I’m sorry. I wanted to stop that, I didn’t want you to also — but I should have known that —”

“No, Hamid, I’m not —” she says, turning so she’s lying on her back, looking up into Hamid’s worried eyes, trying desperately to steady herself so she can talk, make him understand. “I am not sad that I saved you. But…” her breath hitches as the guilt hits her again. “I should not have let you get away in the first place. I let you go and you’ll…” 

“ _Azu, no_ ,” Hamid says, almost reproachful. “No, this isn’t your fault at all! It was a battle, it all happened so quick. You couldn’t have done anything. But you still did _so much._ I felt you cutting through them all, all on your own.”

“But you’ll still die,” Azu whispers, barely able to say it again, and the tears are back, blurring her vision, his face swimming before her eyes.

“Maybe,” Hamid says, and she can hear the sad smile in his words. “But… Azu, I thought I was going to die alone there. I was… gods, I was so scared." He takes a shaky breath. "You know… I prayed. And you came for me. And maybe we’re both going to die here, or we’ll turn and Wilde will — but we’ll be together. Your love… what you did… we’re not going to have to do it alone. Azu… thank you. _Thank you_.” 

Hamid’s crying now, tears falling unacknowledged down his cheeks just as hard as hers. Azu reaches up instinctively towards his face to wipe them away with her broken fingers, but Hamid doesn’t let her. Instead, he takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Please,” he says softly through his tears, still holding her head with his other hand, “please let me take care of you. I’m okay. There’s no — you said there’s no shame in seeking comfort. So please let me be strong for you. Let me tell you — let me tell you how much it mattered. ”

She can’t say anything to that, can’t hold anything in anymore, can only let herself sob into Hamid as he holds her, protects her, presses wet kisses against her forehead and murmurs soft words of comfort. For once, she lets herself believe that he’s right, that her love was enough. That she was enough. 

And when the crying finally subsides, he’s still there, still caring for her with tears in his eyes, never letting go. “I love you,” he says, his voice soft and ragged from crying. “And I know you love me. And… that’s more important than anything else.”

In every word from his mouth, every kiss from his lips, she feels Aphrodite’s love pouring through her.

She’s not alone. 

Whatever happens in the next seven days, none of them will be alone. 

* * *

Zolf surfaces to consciousness with effort, groggily shaking off the depths of sleep. His bone deep exhaustion had knocked him out cold almost as soon as he had laid down his head, and now all sense of time has left him. However, the heaviness of his limbs, which are desperately trying to drag him under once again, makes him believe it can’t have been more than a few hours. Not a full night yet. 

He lies in the dark, listening to the soft sounds of sleep coming from his companions. And then he hears it again: the noise that woke him. A soft hiss of pain through clenched teeth reaches him from somewhere near his feet, and his eyes fly open. 

It doesn’t take long for his vision to adjust to the low flickering of a lamp by the guard table, and he can make out Azu’s sleeping form on the other side of the room, half curled onto Hamid’s bedroll, one hand fisted into his pillow. But Hamid is not in his bed. As his eyes sweep the cell, he finds the halfling moved away from her, sitting at the end of Zolf’s mattress and leaning with his back against the wall. He is slowly shrugging off his ruined shirt from his left shoulder until his arm is bare, the dirty light of the oil lamp showing the glistening sweat on his face as he bites his lip. In his lap are several bandages and a tin of salve, apparently taken from a basket placed next to the entrance sometime during the night. As Zolf watches, Hamid picks up a cloth and begins gingerly dabbing it at his lower arm, doing his utmost to remain silent through the pain. 

The scene flushes something into Zolf’s chest, burning and aching. Sorrow and guilt — even though he did not have the supplies, even though sleep probably did more good than anything he could have done before, Zolf wishes he had helped Hamid more. Unable to watch Hamid ineffectually tending his own injuries a second longer, he quietly slips from underneath the covers and sits up in bed. 

Hamid startles when Zolf’s silhouette casts a shadow across his lap, too concentrated on his task to hear him move. Red-rimmed eyes look up at him as Zolf scoots himself closer. His gaze sweeps across Hamid’s injuries and a soft, bitter smile curves beneath his beard. 

“Let me have a look at that,” he whispers, and before Hamid can reply he gently takes the injured arm into his hands. Some of the burns have lessened, no doubt from Wilde’s healing, but they’ve revealed deep gashes that lead down from his inner elbow to his wrist, already half-scabbed over in places, yet open and raw in others. There are four, and as Zolf starts to softly trace one with his thumb he realizes they are like fingernails. The moment he touches the gash, Hamid flinches back instinctually, cradling his arm and holding it away from him. Zolf looks up worriedly, and sees the terror reflected in Hamid’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt —” he whispers, but Hamid is shaking his head in fear, not pain. 

“N… no Zolf, it’s…” Hamid takes a shuddering breath and lowers the arm back on his lap. There’s a complicated emotion on his face when he continues. “It’s just — that’s… that’s where the infected…” The words are quiet, but they resound through the small space like a death sentence. Zolf searches for the right reply, but before he can utter anything, Hamid continues. “If you’re not already, I don’t want you to… to…” Hamid looks away, and in response, Zolf reaches out again and intertwines his fingers with his, moving Hamid’s arm carefully back into his lap. 

“It’s a little too late for that, I think,” he murmurs, not unkindly, and Hamid finally meets his gaze, tears in his eyes. Zolf takes the cloth from him and begins cleaning his wounds, gently wiping the blood and dirt from his arms, careful not to reopen any scabs. Hamid watches him in silence for several moments, biting his lip and clenching his fist with every jolt of pain. When Zolf reaches over to grab the salve and bandages, Hamid wipes a trembling hand down his face. 

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I tried to put the mission first,” Hamid says in a shaky voice, and the words sting through Zolf as he opens the salve tin. He knows Hamid’s being sincere. It makes it worse. “I wanted to protect Azu. I wanted all of you to finish the mission without me. But you were right. I just ended up doing things because of my… my fear. My guilt. And now…” 

“I’m sorry,” Zolf cuts him off unexpectedly, and Hamid looks surprised. “I was… I don’t know, a — a hypocrite? I don’t think I was wrong before, but — couldn’t follow my own advice, at least. Told you all that ‘bout the mission but — didn’t know til I saw Azu running for you… I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t give up both your lives.”

Hamid gives a strange, strangled laugh at that, cutting through his tears. “Guess we’re both big idiots.” He sniffs. “At least there’s Azu. She’s… she always said she’d do that, and she did.”

“Yeah,” Zolf says, and lapses into silence. 

He looks down at his hands, trying to focus on the simple task of applying the salve and wrapping the bandages securely around Hamid’s arm. Taking care of a straightforward job instead of dwelling on… on everything.

“Grizzop…” Hamid says as Zolf finishes with the bandage. “You — you never met him, but he told me that sometimes all you can do is try. And I thought I was… I thought I could—” Hamid gestures half-heartedly at the rest of the room, or perhaps at the world at large, “Thought I could make up for everything, somehow. I — I don’t know.” 

Zolf leans back against the wall, hand still on Hamid’s bandaged arm as he studies his friend, seeing a distorted reflection of his own struggles. He lets out a tired sigh. “Look, I’ve… I’ve been there. Guilt makes you do… some strange things.” 

He thinks back to Paris, to Prague, to all those other moments when he was running away, looking for answers in the rigour of military service or in devotion to a god he did not comprehend. “Like… I wish it was easy, but... there’s no quick fix for past mistakes. Not even in — in giving yourself to something. Sacrifices. And that kinda thinking, it’s not — it can lead you down some really self-destructive paths, Hamid.”

Hamid lets out a weak chuckle. “Literally,” he says softly. Zolf tries to laugh, but it’s halfway out before it threatens to turn into a sob and he chokes it back, afraid of it spilling out. 

“Trying… “ Zolf says, “trying isn’t about that grand gesture that will — that’ll absolve you, take away the guilt. It’s — it’s about getting up every morning, despite the fact it’s there. It’s about growing past it, working at it the hard way. It’s about... _living_ with it.”

Sasha’s words flash through his mind — the words she’d found for them after her long life. Not always saving the world. Sometimes just saving one person. He doesn’t know whether he saved anyone — maybe he just doomed all four of them instead, the moment he nodded to Cel. But here with Hamid, the first time they’ve talked without arguing in… _gods_ , he doesn’t know how long. He can’t regret it. Maybe he can try to take a page from Sasha’s book, believe they’re all okay. 

“I’m glad I didn’t leave you,” Zolf says quietly, before realizing how blunt that must sound, to admit that it was even a choice. “Not that you wouldn’t be worth saving, just — glad I didn’t put the mission first. Think it’s what she — what Sasha would have wanted.” 

Hamid squeezes Zolf’s hand in silent assent, and they both fall back into silence. Zolf thinks of Sasha’s smile, rare, awkward, and shy, and he’s not sure if the weight in his heart is love or grief. 

“You know, in Prague” Hamid says finally, his voice barely above a whisper, “Sasha told me that sometimes I should just run and… and stay safe, so we wouldn’t lose more people. And — and I guess I didn’t do that, but… you know, every time I did stupidly get myself into danger, she’d always come get me. Always. And you did, too. I know I was foolish, but... I think she’d be proud of you,” He gives Zolf a small, sad smile. “Sagax.”

Zolf feels a dam break deep inside him. He knows this is the most he’s talked about Sasha since… ever. He wants to say more. Wants to say that he misses her, but the words catch in his throat. Instead he swallows down the tears and leans against Hamid, wrapping an awkward arm around his shoulders. Hamid hesitates for a moment, before finally leaning into him, his head resting against Zolf’s chest. 

It’s not perfect. They’re not perfect. But they’re working on it, even at the end of everything. 

* * *

Cel can’t pinpoint the moment when they shift from deep sleep to wakefulness, but they find themself staring into the grey darkness of the ceiling, trying to remember exactly what happened yesterday. They’re in the cell — or, well, the anti-magic cage, they really need to figure out the right English word for that. 

Every muscle aches with exhaustion as they prop themself up on their elbows and peer beneath their hammock. Everyone else is asleep, though not in the places Cel expects them to be. Hamid and Zolf are leaning against each other near Zolf’s mattress by the entrance, while Azu is sleeping by herself at the other end of the room. Hamid must have gone to Zolf for healing during the night, maybe they could —

_We’re infected._

The icy realization creeps into their bones as if the room had suddenly plummeted several degrees. The feeling is familiar now, first on the battlefield, then on the boat. Yet, every time it seems to make reality a little starker. _We’re infected_. But — but that’s okay, right? It’s a novel experience! A new chance to test their theories — what kind of experiments could they do when they’re all turning into —

Cel can hear the snores coming from their companions, and in the darkness their act finally flounders. Here, alone in the unknown hours of the night, they can feel the true terror creeping in. Best case scenario, they’ll be killed before they can hurt anyone. Fade into memory like their family, their town. No longer the oldest half-elf they know.

Nothing lasts forever, but they thought they’d have more time. More time with — _gods_ , they’ll never see Jasper again. They chose this group — one more week of this group’s life, at any rate — over him. Decided what it was worth, to try to help places outside their village. They knew what they were doing, and they chose it anyway. He’ll be fine without them, it’s just — they can feel the tears well up in their eyes — without him… last year, they wouldn’t have thought their last week would be without him. He’s their family, the only one left.

… But he’s not, now, is he? Their village isn’t the only place in the world that needed help, and Jasper isn’t the only one who needed protection. Not their only family, anymore. There are people who pulled them out of years of self-imposed isolation and ignorance towards the plight of the rest of the world, who helped them see how they could make a difference. The people who turned up on their doorstep and offered not only a chance to make things better, but a place in their midst. Friendship. 

Cel leans over the edge of the hammock, studying their friends more intently. Looks at Zolf’s arm wrapped around Hamid’s shoulder, fingers clenching tightly to the tattered fabric of Hamid’s shirt. Cel had wavered so much about whether Zolf was grumpy or not, unsure of what to make of his outbursts, the way he swings from deep concern to angry frustration. They think back to the chaos of the battlefield, that long moment of uncertainty as they sought for confirmation in each other’s faces, Zolf’s eyes filled not with the cold determination he tries so hard to project, but with fear and desperation. They know he struggles to show he cares, and they’re not sure he realizes that in doing so, he wears it on his sleeve for all to see — raw, unfiltered, and unprotected. He might still be working on becoming friendly, but — he’s their friend. A good friend. 

And there’s Hamid, tiny snores coming from his body as he leans into Zolf, more familiar and close than Cel’s ever seen Zolf allow before. They think of Hamid’s strength, not just in his magic and his explosions — they’re good explosions, though — but his optimism, despite everything. Cel knows optimism, works on it every day, feels it deep down, but they think it goes even deeper for him. Burns like his fire, wild and unquenchable, ready to spring up at his beck and call. On the battlefield, Cel knew they had to find him — it was that instinct of perseverance that he pulls out of them. Letting go of Hamid was like letting go of his hope. Petrifying.

They turn their eyes to Azu, curled up alone. Even from here, even as Azu sleeps, Cel thinks they can feel the love radiating off her. Her love is a living thing that engulfs those around her — it’s in both the swing of her axe, protecting them all, and in her embrace that warms Cel’s isolated heart. They’d thought it safe just to care for a few people, but Azu loves the whole world, even the worst parts of it. Azu — Cel has never been religious but — Azu makes them want to be better. 

And maybe they can do something to be better to her, because through the grey darkness, amid the tears swelling in their eyes — which is okay, they always have a good cry at the end of a particularly hard day, and fuck if this isn’t one — they can see that Azu looks uncomfortable. In her sleep, she’s balled up the mattress next to her, the one Hamid fell asleep on, and holds it close to her chest, just like — well, just like she’d hold Hamid if he were there. But deep down she must know it’s not him, because she shifts uneasily, her face creasing with troubled dreams. 

Cel knows they’re not great with people — everyone tends to remind them of that when they’ve been talking for too long — but they’re great at engineering, and maybe this could be a little more efficient, this whole sleeping business. Because Azu should be holding Hamid, seems she needs that little ball of warmth, but Cel doesn’t think Zolf should be alone, either — oh, maybe he’d protest, but they can see how he’s holding Hamid, like he’s relieved he still can — and, well, Cel’s always found that the best follow-up to a good cry was with a good hug themself. But hm, Zolf shouldn’t move, it would be difficult with his legs not working, and Cel’s noticed Hamid can sleep through just about anything, but Azu wakes up easiest…

“What is — is everything okay?” Azu whispers as Cel shakes her awake. 

“Yes!” Cel says brightly, and then remembers their inside voice. “Yes, I’m just — I noticed you were holding that mattress and I thought maybe — why don’t you come over here —” Cel tugs her up towards Hamid and Zolf “— and just, if you pick up Hamid, I don’t _think_ he’ll wake up —”

It takes ten minutes, a careful rearrangement of mattresses, and a hurried conversation with a sleepy, grumpy, but most importantly _pliable_ Zolf — but eventually Cel finds themself holding a now-dozing dwarf, who is nestled into a mattress and still clutching Hamid’s injured arm to his chest. Azu, face finally smoothed out in relaxation, is lying on her side, curled around a sleeping, oblivious Hamid and gently holding him close with her broken hand. Across from each other, over the top of Zolf and Hamid’s heads, Azu reaches for Cel’s hand with her free arm. Cel flashes a brief, appreciative smile at her and takes her warm, calloused hand in their own. 

They fall asleep like this, surrounded by friends — family they’ll lose so soon. But people who made every moment worth it. 


	9. Where we break when our hearts are strong enough

Oscar watches them sleeping in the cell for longer than he should. Despite the blood and dirt and grime, they look strikingly peaceful huddled together in an exhausted pile. His eyes slide over the basket of bandages and medication, and its presence causes a flash of shame to burn across his cheeks. He hadn’t been able to make himself face them before, instead tasking the innkeeper to bring the supplies. So he could safely hide upstairs and linger in that liminal space where he didn’t have to confront stark reality. Not until the small hours of the night when he was certain they would all be asleep and wouldn’t be able to witness his weakness. He knows he shouldn’t be here.  _ Foolish. You know better.  _

He knew they’d die following his orders. Knew it long before he lost them to Rome. Inevitable. Necessary. Acceptable losses in pursuit of the mission. A thousand lies he told himself and none of them ease the guilt. None of them change how much it hurts. 

How many times did he warn them about attachments? He always knew their humanity would get them killed, had tried so hard to lead by example and show what was necessary to survive. And yet here he finds himself allowing the current of grief to drag him under, as if he ever believed they had a chance. As if he cares for them.  _ Hypocrite.  _ A bitter laugh he barely recognizes as his own falls from his lips and he chokes back the sound. __

Oscar’s been through this so many times now. Watched his colleagues descend into the cellar like they were walking corpses. Dead to him. But this time, it’s different. There’s a certainty — a finality he has never had to deal with before. He thought he’d managed to bury his friends every time they left on a mission, but he realizes that it’s nothing compared to the inevitability that overwhelms him now. How he can almost trick his eyes into already seeing the blue veins creeping up their still faces. 

A sudden wave of nausea takes him and he’s turning on his heel, out of the room. He needs to write. 

His mind is abuzz with static as his feet lead him back up the stairs, down the hall and into the safety of his office. It isn’t until the door clicks shut, closing him inside with just his thoughts for company, that he finally takes a breath. Only then can he calm the painful tingling in his fingers. Only then does he become aware of himself again, and as he looks out the window, he realizes how long ago the sun has set and how deep the darkness stretches. 

He gravitates towards the desk like an old friend, slumping in the chair. His hands search the drawer and he strikes a match to the candle, the light flickering across the room. Amid the shadows, the golden glint of the kintsugi pots smiles back at him.  _ They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead. _

No.

That’s not what he’s here for. 

His fingers brush across the stack of letter paper, lingering, hesitating — and then he pulls out a new sheet. Time to get to work. He’ll need to notify Barnes and Carter, tell them to take their time with their current mission, stay away for another week. But first… 

He knows that by the end there will be nothing to send home to their families, but letters will be in order.  _ Saira _ .  _ Emeka _ .  _ Jasper _ . At least Zolf has no one left to notify — the closest thing he has to family is dying with him. Or killing him. 

Oscar takes up the pen and starts to write in a shaky hand that he already knows he’ll have to redraft.

> _ Dear Saira _ ,  _ I regret to inform you that your brother, Hamid, was lost on our most recent mission. It is my understanding that his death was quick and painless. _

His pen pauses. What other comforting lies will his words whisper to her? An important mission, carefully researched? Valuable information gained? A worthy sacrifice, and not the senseless, wasteful death caused by the stupidity of his handler? He should have _ known. _ He should have —  _ stop.  _ He swipes angrily at the dampness on his cheeks, a weakness he knows better than to indulge.

He tried to keep them at arm's length. Knew their deaths were only a matter of time and place. Logistics. He spent as little time with them as possible, kept conversations focused on the mission, no jokes, no laughter. Not for him. He tried. And yet…

_ It’s good to see you again, Oscar.  _ Hamid’s heartfelt smile, his outstretched hand. Hamid still cared for others despite everything, still hoped, still brought smiles to the faces of all around him. He thinks of Hamid’s arms wrapped around his waist in a grateful hug, not questioning Oscar’s decision to withhold Sasha’s letter from them during their quarantine. Misplaced faith, of course. 

He might have known they’d die for Hamid in the end. He can’t even find it in himself to blame them.

Oscar’s eyes drift to another piece of paper on his desk — another letter, meticulously copied from its original.  _ Alright, mates _ . His words are empty in comparison to hers. Meaningless. He used to be so  _ good _ at writing, his words as his weapons, better illusions than any magic he could weave through song. But he’s wielded them offensively for so long that they lack any authentic comfort. Only stinging barbs carefully directed to push people away, to manipulate, to drive them toward goals he considers useful. 

He could use Sasha’s blunt sincerity now. He tries to remember the only comfort that he’s ever truly offered them, in his confidential report to Apophis, pleading Sasha’s case. The smallest bit of humanity, an unintentional kindness. Does he have any of that left in himself? 

> ~~_I’m so sorry for_~~ _I ~~made a mistake and~~_ _Hamid was the beating heart of our team. His unparalleled optimism sustained_ ~~ _me_~~ _many of us through untold hardships. Despite the illness of the world, he remained kind and_

He drops his pen, fingers tangling in his hair, shoulders shaking in silent tears. Hamid’s gone. Zolf’s gone. They’re all gone. _ You finally did it, Oscar. You finally killed them.  _

His stomach churns and he struggles to his feet through sheer force of will, stumbling toward the wash closet. Slamming the screen door behind him, he clutches the basin with trembling hands. While the tears silently drip down, nothing but the burn of bile in the back of his throat spills forth from his mouth. He hasn’t eaten in… how long? Choking on nothing, he slumps to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, leaning his head against the wall.  _ Breathe, Oscar. In. Out.  _

_ Slowly.  _

Their faces swim before his eyes — Zolf’s steadying presence, now his oldest living friend; Cel’s ever-present enthusiasm; Hamid’s warm smile; Azu’s bright eyes — visions of how he’ll kill them, four at once, dead at his hands — 

_ Pull yourself together, Oscar.  _ He forces himself to stand and fumbles desperately at the tap like a drowning man clawing at a liferaft, until finally the water flows over his trembling hands. The cold shocks him back to reality. His eyes burn with hot tears and he cups his hands under the steady stream, clumsily splashing his face in an effort to drown the images of the dead. His hands return to lean on the cool porcelain of the basin and he watches as the water drips steadily back into the sink. 

He focuses on it, the soft splashing of the water grounding him in the here and now, until finally he feels steady enough to reach for a towel. He buries his face into it, breathing in its soft textile scent, then wipes the fabric roughly across his eyes, attempting to regain his composure. 

He has letters to write, after all. 

Finally looking up, Oscar meets his own hollow stare in the mirror, expression blank and empty — an emotionless void now threatening to swallow him whole. He watches in the mirror as his hand moves up, fingers slowly tracing the scar warping his cheek. The mistake, the turning point, the reason for the careful disposal of his humanity. 

He barely recognizes himself. Who has he become? What’s left of who he used to be? He’s told himself that this slow death, the murder of his own soul, would be better than losing himself and his team to the hivemind, but — he’s seen the empty smiles of the infected, and as he attempts a grin now, he can’t spot any difference.

He knows they sacrificed themselves for each other. But he knows they had to. Knows that had they not, they’d have become like him. They might not have come back with blue veins slowly growing under their skin, but what would have been crawling across their souls would have been worse. It would have finally drained the love from Azu’s heart, crushed by so many losses. Would have extinguished that spark of hope in Zolf’s eyes, his magic sputtering and failing once more. Would have caused Cel to vanish back to their quiet village, unable to watch their new friends fall one by one.

He watches his cold smile fall away in the mirror. To his surprise, it’s replaced not by tears, but by the hard shock of realization. They had to save Hamid. They would not have been able to go on without him, not with the knowledge that he might have survived. They had to believe in something, or else lose to the infection before it even claimed them. 

If they could do that —  _ should _ do that — what does that say for the envy creeping in his heart at their faith? At their unwavering loyalty to their humanity?

When Oscar finally returns to his office, his face is dry and his breathing even. He sits back at his desk, his heart is exhausted, almost calm. Not quite numb, he picks up the letter to Saira and holds it to the candle on his desk. The paper blackens instantly, curling up into a wisp of smoke. When the last edges of the paper flicker away, erasing the words written for a bleaker future, he allows himself one small, solitary smile. 

He’ll try hope, then. He has to, for himself.


	10. Where the time of our lives is all we have

Inside the cell, dawn announces itself with a hearty breakfast brought down by a stony, impassive Wilde. Hamid awakes in a tangle of his friends’ limbs as they all groggily pull themselves into consciousness for the first inspection. There is a limited exchange of words, but afterwards quiet elation ripples through all four when they see the innkeeper arrive with two pails of hot water and clean clothes and linen. They wash away the nervous tension of the examination along with all the grime and dried blood, making grateful use of the opportunity to clean up. When eventually they sit down to a calm meal together, comfortable in their soft, fresh garments, silence settles between them. 

They have seven days, at most. They should figure out how to spend them. 

But Hamid finds he doesn’t have the attentiveness necessary to hold a conversation, nor is he able to come up with anything else to do to pass the time. His wounds still sting and his limbs ache, so instead the day passes agonizingly slowly as each person retreats to their own corner, the initial panic of their situation dissipating and leaving behind only quiet shock and deep exhaustion. 

Sketching idly in his notebook, Hamid finds he can barely keep his eyes open. When he glances up occasionally between accidental naps, he sees that he’s not the only one struggling to focus; the others doze into their books and card games as the hours blur together. Intermittent snores, infrequent hushed conversation, and the creak of Cel’s hammock fill the day’s yawning silence. 

Amid numb drowsiness, Hamid manages to temporarily push aside his fears of infection. It’s not until the evening, when Zolf quietly asks to look at his injuries, that a jolt of anxiety cuts through his weariness. He casts a worried look at Azu and she gives him an encouraging nod, as if reassuring him in his decision to accept healing from Zolf instead of her. 

But that’s not why he’s nervous, and his eyes snap back to his arm as Zolf begins to unwrap the bandages. The moment seems to last a century, and with every passing second, Hamid’s heart beats faster, certain that Zolf will uncover the first hints of blue beneath. But when the wrapping falls away, Hamid sees nothing but yesterday’s scabbing wounds, and he breathes a sigh of relief. If Zolf notices Hamid’s tenseness, he doesn’t comment on it, instead wordlessly reapplying the salve and redressing the arm. 

Hamid mutters a soft thanks and settles back down on his mattress, absentmindedly picking at the fresh bandages, knowing that today’s reassurance won’t prevent the same anxiety from returning tomorrow night, or the following days. It’s only a matter of time before his luck finally runs out.

He pushes the thoughts away and struggles to stay awake, watching the others in their silence. But it’s not long before he sees Cel return to their hammock and Zolf retreat to his corner in search of blessed privacy. Finally, Azu abandons her novel and lies down beside Hamid, their hands finding each other on instinct in comfort and reassurance. As his fingers brush against hers, he feels the splint and bandages keeping them in place. Wordlessly, he brings her hand up to his lips and kisses it before closing his eyes and letting sleep overtake him.

* * *

The second day starts much the same as the first, threatening to be indistinguishable save for the soft drum of rain outside muffled through the floorboards. Lying in their hammock with Shoin’s journal resting on their chest, Cel listens to the sounds, contemplating. It’s calming and they’re tired, sure; all of them are. But Cel is also tired of _not speaking_. Which is why when Wilde leaves after bringing lunch, his annoyingly emotionless face still revealing nothing, they seize on the first opportunity for conversation. Waiting until the hatch closes, they turn to the others as they fetch their portion of the meal and bring it back to their hammock.

“You’ve known him for a while, right?” they ask the room at large. “Was he always like that? Cold and kind of sour?”

Zolf laughs at that, louder than he’s been in days, and _that’s_ a sound that Cel’s missed, too, anyone laughing at all, even if Cel doesn’t quite know why. 

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” Hamid says between bites of lunch, when Zolf fails to explain his grin. “The first time we met Oscar, he broke into my apartment in London. We didn’t know we were working for him then. He just helped himself to my best port and… erm… arranged a _private interview_ with Bertie.” 

Zolf snorts, but Azu sits up from where she’s leaning against the wall. “What? You never told me that! He and _Bertie_?” 

“I, uh, may have left some of the finer details out of my narrative,” Hamid replies apologetically.

“Tell ‘em about the Bertie article,” Zolf says, smirking behind his cup of tea.

“The _what_?” says Cel, leaning down so far from their hammock that the crumbs of lunch fall to the floor, only moderately offended that the others have kept choice gossip from them for so long. 

“ _Huffing and Puffing with Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham_ ,” Hamid says with a barely contained smile. “But only if _you_ tell them about all the times you threatened to drown Oscar in a bucket. Or when you poured ice water on him.”

Hamid and Zolf’s laughter is infectious, and it’s not long until they’re all sharing stories, momentarily able to banish the silent dread that Cel knows has been subduing them. Cel tells them of when they met Jasper — his shy eagerness, his fascination with their alchemy, and his panic when he first witnessed Cel blowing themself up. Azu, on the other hand, talks about her many ill-advised crushes through seminary, including a disastrous midnight tryst, and Zolf describes how his pirate crew teased him for his neatness when he first joined on, how stiff and straight-laced he was after years in the Navy.

The day flies by, filled with conversation, and Cel’s still recounting the toys they invented for the refugee children in their village — and the pranks for which those toys were used — by the time that dinner arrives. Cel watches the grins on their friends’ faces with satisfaction. They can’t make everything better, but they know how to cheer someone up in a pinch, and if it relieves their own boredom — well, that’s just a nice byproduct.

* * *

Hamid’s almost finished his second portion of breakfast on the third day when Azu and Zolf break into an enthusiastic debate about Meredith, Azu’s favourite Campbell protagonist, and her many love interests. After a quarter of an hour, as the group neatly stacks their dishes back in the basket and Zolf passionately explains why the dashing Mx. Abehla would suit her best, Hamid instinctively rolls his eyes. 

“You still just can’t help yourself, can you Hamid?” Zolf says, noticing Hamid’s expression, but the dwarf’s tone holds no malice and a teasing grin plays around Zolf’s lips. 

“I mean, you’ve gotten better but — _gods_ , you were posh as hell at the start,” Zolf continues and he turns to Azu when she raises an eyebrow. “Even worse than he is now, Azu. Would barely dirty himself to blend into Other London. He looked like he’d just smelled a rotten fish when we suggested it. And his face when he read _When Passions Collide…_ ”

“I— I only said it wasn’t exactly lit— ” Hamid stops himself, not wanting to rehash old arguments, and instead shakes his head and smiles. “Here” — he sits up, snatches a Campbell from the pile near the entrance, and tosses it to Zolf — “read it out. I promise this time I’ll pay proper attention. And I won’t comment!”

Zolf catches the book and hesitates for a moment, looking toward Hamid with an oddly vulnerable expression. With a sudden rush of shame Hamid realizes he’s searching him for any hint of ridicule, which tells him more about how much the books mean to Zolf than words could ever do. Hamid flashes him a quick, reassuring smile, kicking himself for his past comments.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind...” Zolf says nervously. When Hamid nods in encouragement, Zolf glances at the cover and Hamid can see his eyes light up — apparently it’s a good choice, then. Zolf opens the book and begins to read, his voice uncertain but picking up a steady volume as he continues. 

Two hours later, Hamid is curled up against Azu, head pillowed in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair as Zolf reads the second _Hearts of Fire_ book aloud. Even Cel listens with rapt attention, leaning against his shoulder and following along so they can do some of the voices. Zolf isn’t a great orator, stumbling over words and occasionally pausing to chatter with Azu about the characters, but Hamid doesn’t mind. Surprisingly, he finds himself engaged with the storyline. Longing for its happy ending and cliché plot. For people who love without reservation. 

Hamid never imagined he’d spend his last days on this earth listening to Harrison Campbell novels, but here he is.

* * *

Zolf knows, when he wakes up to the humid cold of the fourth morning, that it’ll be a bad day. Though the inspection reveals no blue veins, he can feel anxiety balling in the pit of his stomach and coalescing into frustration. It’s not long now, it _can’t_ be long til they fall, and he’s stuck in this _bloody stupid_ cell, underground, can’t move around or even stand up by himself. And it’s not anyone’s fault, not really. It’s a choice and he made it — but that doesn’t stop his nerves from grating at the sound of everyone’s voices, at every bit of forced cheer from the others. 

It doesn’t help that when he retreats to his corner, burying his face in a book he can’t make himself read, that Azu and Cel follow him, trying to coax him into conversation. _Pitying him for his sadness_. 

No, that’s not fair. He knows that’s not fair, but some part of him still wants to lash out, to yell about just how much he needs one last look at the ocean. How much better he’d feel if he were alone, with the briny wind on his face. How this is the last place he’d want to spend his final days. 

Zolf tries to stay civil, but the others must hear the frustration in his tone, because eventually they abandon the conversation. When Azu returns to her mattress, sorrow written on her face, Zolf guiltily knows it’s the last place she’d want to be, too. She hates being underground, even more than him, and — he doesn’t exactly understand everything between her and Aphrodite, but he knows Azu doesn’t deserve to be separated from her goddess in her last moments. She deserves to have her Cult say they’re proud of her, because they _should_ be. Deserves to summon her camel for comfort and to say goodbye. Deserves to see her family. 

And Cel, who’s now lying in their hammock and staring up at the ceiling, deserves more than this — _more than his anger_ , the nasty part of his brain says before he pushes the thought away. It's just that — Zolf wishes Cel could say goodbye to the village they fought so hard to protect, to the apprentice they love so much. They’ve earned a quiet life after decades of pain, no matter what they think. They don’t owe the world or this party anything, and still they gave their life for them. 

And Hamid — after reaching out and getting burned so many times, Hamid had known better than to try to talk to Zolf when he’s lost control like this, when he’s _weak_ — but now Zolf looks over at him and sees in surprise that Hamid’s writing. The halfling’s brow is furrowed in concentration as his pen flows rapidly across the page, and he halts every few minutes to wipe away a tear. A letter to his family, Zolf assumes, remembering Hamid’s furtive, ill-advised conversation with his brother, and his own mixture of frustration and regret at ending it. He turns back to his book, rereading the same paragraph for a fourth time before noticing Azu hesitantly reaching for a sheet of paper. She bites her lip as she, too, begins to write, struggling to position her pen between her broken fingers. Starting a sentence, scratching it out, and then starting another. 

There’s a quiet thump a few moments later, and Zolf looks up to see Cel dropping cross-legged into a corner of the cell, pen in hand as they join the others and begin writing what he assumes is a final message to Jasper. Normally so quick, Cel pauses between each word, face crumpled into frustration. 

Zolf can’t tell what the pangs of emotion wracking his body are. Envy that he has no one in the world to write to, almost no one outside this cell who’ll care when he dies. Guilt at that jealousy, at his previous frustrations. Twisted gratitude that he won’t leave anyone behind to grieve for him. Fear of whom he might see in the next life. 

There’s a quiet sigh as Hamid scrawls a final line, folds the letter twice, and tucks it carefully into his breast pocket — close to his heart. Zolf watches him walk over to Azu, who’s already discarded three attempts, papers crumpled beside her in a pile. Cautiously, Hamid places a hand on her shoulder, apparently silently asking if she’s okay; she nods and he moves away. 

Almost half an hour and two drafts later, Azu puts down her pen and stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought, brow wrinkled. “Do you mind if I burn my incense?” she says finally, in a quiet tone that seems directed at no one in particular. 

The others all look up at her in confusion for a second, but Hamid’s quick to respond with an “of course not!” 

Cel nods vigorously from their corner where they’ve still only managed to write half a page, and Zolf forces himself to give a grunt of approval. 

Slowly, Azu pulls three candles and a box of matches from her pack; she lights them methodically, her lips moving in silent prayer with each spark. She settles, cross-legged, in front of the candles, her breath deepening and her face falling into tranquility as she begins to meditate.

Zolf knows he shouldn’t watch, knows he’s a hypocrite by denying her privacy when frustrated by the lack of his own, but he can’t help it. Even here, severed from Aphrodite’s powers, Azu reaches within herself for a peace that Zolf never found in Poseidon. Mesmerized by her serenity, he finds himself closing his eyes, almost unconsciously mimicking her. His muscles relax as he reaches for the small flicker of hope in his heart and he allows himself to believe, just for a moment, that they’ll survive. And if not, if they — well, maybe there’s hope for what comes next. For the apologies he’s been waiting to give for over a decade. For happiness after so much sorrow. 

Zolf takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, feeling some small part of his anxiety dissipating. 

Yes, he’ll hope. 

* * *

Hamid carefully watches Oscar turn to leave after the fifth day’s inspection reveals still no blue veins. Behind the cracks in their jailer’s emotionless mask, Hamid thinks he sees a glint of surprise in his eyes. _We should be turning already_ , Hamid thinks. 

That evening, Azu and Zolf share their own confusion at how long the infection’s taking, while Cel vibrates with possible scientific explanations for their health. 

“I mean, it could be the anti-magic cage,” Cel is saying in their usual rapid tone. “It did, like, seem to slow down Shoin’s, you know, the rate at which he got messages from the hivemind? Or wait, maybe it’s cause we’re not human? Do dwarves take longer to be infected?”

“Not that I know of…” Zolf says, head in one hand. “But we don’t have much to go on.”

“Yeah, yeah, small sample size!” Cel says. “Or, how about — we’ve all been somehow exposed to a less potent form of the virus and perhaps our immune systems have developed an adequate response leading to a natural inoculation without the development of any outward symptoms!”

“That’s assuming that it works like a normal virus,” Azu says, nodding along to the medical jargon that makes Hamid’s head spin. “Most viruses don’t connect you to a hivemind.”

Hamid, only able to understand half the words the others are spouting, simply stays quiet, drawing closer to Azu’s warmth — not in optimism, exactly, but in silent endurance. Finally, when Azu’s exhausted the conversation, she rests her head in his lap once more, letting him wordlessly care for her. Hamid focuses on running his hands along her head to avoid picking at his bandages. He knows there’s nothing either can say to soothe the other’s anxiety. There’s only waiting. 

Cel and Zolf join the two of them eventually, and they fall asleep in the same arrangement as the first night, all tucked against each other, Azu’s long arm stretched across both Hamid and Zolf.

Despite the comforting presence of the others around him, Hamid continues to shift uneasily, the unanswered question of why they’re still healthy plaguing his mind. He thought that every passing day without signs of blue veins would be easier, but it only causes him greater unease. 

_It’s the waiting_ , he thinks — the constant anticipation of the inevitable, knowing that every passing moment brings them closer to discovering the first symptoms. And through his fear, he finds himself fighting to suppress any growing hope for a future after this week, terrified of his own devastation when his faith is disproven. Optimism flows from him as naturally as his fire, but for the first time he can understand why it inspires such terror in Zolf. Hope means you have something left to lose, and it’ll hurt less if he can make himself believe that he’s already lost it. 

It’s when he’s lying awake, staring into the darkness, that Hamid hears a gasp of breath beside him. Suddenly, Zolf’s lurching upright, eyes glazed with panic, reflecting the dim lantern light; Hamid thinks he recognizes the motions of a healing spell in Zolf’s outstretched hand. Zolf remains in a motionless daze for several moments, panting, and Hamid hears a faint protest from behind him. It’s Azu, drowsily murmuring at the movement that has disturbed her arm. Zolf looks around, confused, but Hamid reaches out and settles a hand on Zolf’s forearm until the dwarf meets his gaze, his unsteady breathing finally beginning to calm. 

Hamid watches as Zolf looks over at Azu and then at Cel, as if reassuring himself that they’re all here — all still alive and healthy. Uninfected. Eventually, apparently satisfied, Zolf lays back down. Azu mumbles a drowsy approval as she replaces her arm around them and Cel, still unconscious, leans even closer into Zolf. As Hamid watches Zolf fall back asleep, he finds himself matching the rhythm of the dwarf’s breathing, calming himself until his heart beats a slow, steady beat and his anxious mind finally manages to follow Zolf into the depths of sleep.

* * *

On the sixth day, Azu wakes to an undercurrent of fear, restlessness, and confusion reverberating from all her friends. When still no outward signs of infection reveal themselves, her anxiety only increases. She wants nothing more than to know exactly how much time they have left. 

“Do you still have all that chalk?” Cel asks the group after lunch, and Azu shares a puzzled look with Hamid before they both nod and fetch them from their bags. Chalk in hand, Cel immediately begins sketching on the walls. Their first drawing is of a handsome human man with a wide grin; the group listens as Cel begins to talk about their father, words flowing out like the first pebbles of an avalanche. 

Azu smiles softly as she listens, and turns a piece of chalk over and over in her hand before she finally presses it against the rough stone of the cell. She knows she’s not the best artist and her broken fingers don't help, but she carefully sketches lines until she can almost hear her mother’s warm voice in her drawing. Her father’s next, and then Emeka, and then her favourite aunt. Her whole family.

She’s so focused that when she finally looks up, she’s astonished to see the number of faces staring back at her from around the cage. On the wall next to her, Azu recognizes the Tahan family, save for a young woman with a kind smile and a striking resemblance to Hamid; his gaze lingers on this last one, and Azu knows it must be Aziza. Cel’s family is unfamiliar to her, but she knows Jasper, his face frozen in raucous laughter. In the corner, Zolf stares at the piece of broken chalk in his hand. On his portion of the wall, three crudely drawn dwarf faces look down at him, alongside a short-haired woman with a distinctive scar running up her neck. 

“Should probably erase it soon,” Zolf mumbles, looking at the ground, and Azu can hear the strain in his voice as he struggles to keep his composure. “Shouldn’t let the — might be dangerous, let the hivemind know more about them.”

They all nod, but none of them make any attempt to move. 

“Nothing important, then,” Hamid says, breaking the silence. He turns to his eldest sister’s portrait. “Aziza loved feteer. We usually eat it during celebrations and… when she came home from tour, that’s how it felt. So we’d go out to a different stand every day.” His voice cracks, tears pooling in his eyes, but he continues. “I’d save up all my pocket money for a month to treat her.”

Azu reaches down, resting a hand on his shoulder, trying to find the words to speak. “My father always tells the same jokes,” she offers, finally. “There was one about the old woman and the hyena… I don’t know if it translates, but…” 

They continue until dinner time, introducing each other to the families they’ll never see again. Remembering who they fought for. Saying goodbye. Letting go. 

As Azu finally wipes away the last traces of her brother’s face from the wall, his final words to her ring through her mind. ‘ _If you die, I’ll kill you_.’ She can’t help her fond smile. _Sorry_ , she imagines elbowing him affectionately, _the infection got there first_. She only hopes her letter won’t hurt him more. 

That night, Azu lays awake, listening to her friends toss and turn. Tomorrow’s the last day. 

None of them sleep.

* * *

When Hamid hears the key click in the lock of the cellar door on the seventh morning, he’s already been up and picking at his bandage for an hour. He watches with tired eyes and a heart full of dread as Oscar descends the steps and places a basket with breakfast just outside the bars. In contrast to previous days, his face betrays no surprise when the inspection reveals no blue veins even as bewilderment ripples through the rest of them. But when he moves back up the steps, he hesitates at the door, casting an unreadable glance back toward them. “Good luck,” he says softly, before turning and sealing them in once more. 

Hamid opens the basket and to his surprise finds four bottles of fine whiskey tucked underneath the food. He brushes his fingers against the label, an odd mix of emotions welling up inside him, before pulling one out and passing it wordlessly to Zolf. The dwarf inspects it, face dour. 

“For our wake,” Zolf says grimly, and Hamid feels regret stab through him.

“Or a celebration!” Cel quickly interjects. “Or — what was it Carter said? We can be so drunk the hivemind can’t hear us? I don’t think that’s accurate, but —”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Azu. “Hand one over.”

As his friends open their bottles, Hamid turns his around and around in his hands. One last day. Only one, because he _— no_. His regrets don’t define him. He knows that now. 

“You okay, little buddy?” Cel says, looking over, and when Hamid looks up, his hopeful smile is genuine. 

“I think I am,” he says, and twists open the bottle. 

Two hours later, they’re singing. Zolf’s already taught them a rousing sea shanty, Hamid a two-part Arabic lullaby he used to sing with Aziza, and Azu a shockingly crude drinking song she learned at seminary. Now it’s Cel’s turn, and they’re trying desperately to teach a ballad from their village — much to the frustration of the others, whose tongues stumble tipsily over the complicated Elvish syllables. 

“Why does any word need to be so _bloody_ long?” Zolf’s demanding, a broad smile on his alcohol-flushed face. As Cel begins a complicated response about Elvish linguistics and Azu collapses into giggles, Hamid basks in the afterglow of shared camaraderie. 

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he says softly, under the laughter, and he means it. 

They fall asleep holding each other and rest peacefully through the night. Whatever tomorrow brings, Hamid knows he’s ready for it.


	11. We can laugh without reason

There’s a mole beneath Azu’s left ear that Hamid’s never noticed before. He lies staring at it, enveloped by her warmth, studying every detail of her sleeping face. The rise and fall of her chest. Her hand resting gently on him, her fingers still in splints. The colour of the fuzz on her head, growing back. The soft, sweet scent of her skin. Behind him, he can hear Cel and Zolf’s slow, steady breathing as they sleep. 

Maybe he should wake them up before — before Oscar comes down, give them time to prepare, but something keeps him lying there. He could stay forever like this, he thinks, surrounded by the ones he loves. So he remains quiet, listening to their soft sounds. This moment is for him.

But he cannot create eternity, and the click of the lock turning in the door eventually announces that his time’s up. As he shakes the others awake, Hamid feels no panic rising in his chest. He knows it may be the end, just as well as he knows it may be the beginning. 

There’s nothing left for him to do now. 

None of them speak during the inspection, not a single word betraying fear. Hamid watches Oscar’s face, hoping to find an answer in his fixed expression, but it’s like trying to discern the future in a rock. The moment passes in fearless, blank infinity, and it’s not until the inspection’s finished that the veil lifts as a crooked smile slowly pulls at Oscar’s scar. Hope blossoms into joy within Hamid’s chest. It’s over. 

Oscar steps forward, unlocking the door of the cell. “I’ll be upstairs,” he says, his voice quiet and unsteady; he offers one nod and quickly turns back up to the inn.

The cell is filled with warm, stunned silence and the spell is only broken when Azu picks up her bag. They all pack up their things, waiting for Zolf to reattach his legs before Cel helps him out of the anti-magic area and starts up the stairs. The others follow but Hamid trails behind, glancing back into the cage as he leaves. He barely remembers being carried in, half-unconscious in Azu’s arms. His heart races at the thought of climbing out on his own two feet. He never thought he’d see the sun again. 

The brightness at the top of the stairs makes Hamid’s eyes water; sunrise pours into the hallway, illuminating everything in gold. He blinks, his sight adjusting to the dawn, before noticing the open door leading onto the porch. Without thinking, he’s drawn towards the new day, following his feet outside.

Beyond the portal, the world is alight and full of life. Overwhelming. Cool, fresh air fills his lungs, flooding his senses as much as the vivid colours of the sky. He stands there for a moment before he sees Oscar leaning against the porch rail beside him. Hamid meets his gaze, and in one moment a dozen emotions overcome Oscar’s face. Guilt. Embarrassment. Grief. 

Oscar hesitates, as if trying to find the words to speak, and Hamid instinctively extends a hand towards him. Before he can think, though, Oscar’s crouching, arms enveloping him, pulling him into a silent hug.

It’s warm, sincere, reciprocated, nothing like the last time Hamid reached out to him. When they finally pull apart, Oscar’s face has returned to a half-grin, though unshed tears glint in his eyes.

“Go, then,” he says, giving him a gentle push towards the maple tree, where Hamid now sees Azu waiting. 

He descends the stairs and looks back at Oscar, sitting down on the steps, paperwork in one hand. With a faint smile, Oscar picks up the teacup beside him and takes a sip. The porcelain’s colouring is uneven, the mended cracks across its surface glinting golden in the morning light. A thing of beauty. 

At the maple tree, Azu is smiling softly, reaching out with her broken hand as Hamid approaches. He takes it gently, beaming up at her, and instantly restorative warmth diffuses through his arms and legs and a soft pink glow surrounds Azu, haloed by the sunlight like Aphrodite's personal blessing. Hamid squeezes her newly-healed hand. 

Together, they walk down the dirt path, across the dunes filled with swaying reeds, heading towards the shore. Hamid delights in the calls of the gulls above him as the ocean finally comes into view, the rays of a dazzling sunrise glittering across its surface. At the water’s edge, Cel and Zolf stand side by side, looking out over the lapping waves. A gust of wind rolls across the beach, billowing through Zolf’s jacket, and Hamid can see the unbridled joy on his face.

Their shoes are already off by the time they reach their friends, the wet sand cold between Hamid’s toes as the sun warms his face. They stand together in silence, transfixed by the sunrise. Beside him, Azu stretches her arms out towards the heavens, standing tall once more, contentment written across every line of her face. Zolf closes his eyes and breathes in the salty air, listening to the crashing of the waves, interrupted only when Cel spots a blue-shelled crab scuttling across the sand; they dash after it with a delighted shout.

Hamid laughs, bright and exuberant, and his voice bounces across the water like a skipping stone.

They’re okay. They’re all okay. He’s okay. 

His laughter dissipates into the cool morning breeze and he once again takes Azu’s hand, their eyes meeting before they look back out across the ocean. The sunrise, still painting the sky in vivid pink, feels like a promise. 

There will be no more self-sacrifices. No more guilt. 

Just endless mornings to come, each one a choice to be better, to stay with the ones he loves.

To live.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Full content warnings/tags:**  
>   
>  \- Angst with a happy ending  
> \- Infection & quarantine  
> \- Graphic depictions of violence  
> \- References to canonical character deaths (Sasha, Grizzop, Aziza)  
> \- Self-sacrificial suicide attempt  
> \- Suicidal ideation  
> \- Guilt & self-hatred  
> \- Depression  
> \- References to familial emotional abuse (canon-typical al-Tahan dynamics)  
> \- War/mass death  
> \- Hallucinatory dreams  
> \- Catatonia  
> \- Interparty conflict (canon-typical Hamid & Zolf dynamics)  
> \- Canon-typical inspections for blue veins (not described in detail)
> 
> **And lastly, a note from each of us:**
> 
> This is the longest thing any of us have written. We have laughed and cried and made many a dumb joke while writing this. Not infrequently would one of us awake with a new idea, or be struck with inspiration in the middle of a meeting, a shower, or at night - on how to end a scene, or a random perfect line of dialogue - and come screaming into each other's DMs to talk about it no matter the time. I could not ask for better colleagues in writing. Working together is supposed to take work but Charlie and Heather make it easy, lifting me up where I fall down. This story is the result. It is dark and sad and hopeful and joyful and in the end it is our love letter to a podcast that has made us feel these exact same things, and for the players and characters that have our endless love and respect. Thank you so much, and I hope you all enjoyed it!  
> ~ Babs
> 
> Even after 27k, I don’t think I can find the right words to say how much this fic has meant to me. When we started, I thought it would be a relatively quick project, not much more than 5k; Babs and Heather were both more realistic, and I’ve never been so happy to be proven wrong in my life. Through what’s been a difficult month in my personal life, writing this has been a lifeline. It’s been laughing to tears at our stupid jokes and crying real tears of grief at what we’d just written; waking up to find crimes in the google doc or the chat; teasing the fic on discord and cackling to each other; making each other yell by sending sad songs; writing sessions, whether during the day, fuelled by alcohol, or at night, fuelled by exhaustion; group editing sessions over voice chat, filled with giggles. I feel so grateful to be able to write with my friends, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it, too.  
> ~ Charlie
> 
> Writing with Babs and Charlie, two dear friends who encouraged me so much in my first fanfic attempts, has been amazing. I grew as a writer and learned an immeasurable amount from both of them during this process. As we started building out the initial concept, I dreamed hopefully of a 10k wordcount, something that — to me — at first seemed unbelievable, and — well, you can see how that turned out. I could never have done anything like this alone. I’m so grateful to have had two wonderful co-writers who encouraged me every time I struggled. We laughed and cried so many times while writing this fic, and with every angst crime, every brainstorming session, every hilarious joking title, and every attempt to sneak a whale into the fic — still salty I didn’t manage it — it has been an experience that I’ll never forget. I’m so grateful that I found this podcast. The story, the characters, the players, the friends that I’ve met along the way, they all mean more to me than I can express. I hope you all enjoy this fic at least half as much as I enjoyed working on it. <3  
> ~ Heather


End file.
